Fields of Trees
by OrisounAsh
Summary: Her life was what she had made it, but not what she needed. Loneliness can be crippling; so can denial. AU. Vin/OC. Recently re-edited for content and back on track.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is the first of a thirteen chapter update of Fields of Trees. Hopefully, these slight changes will provide a bit more background to the characters that was lacking in the original. Disclaimer is on my profile page.

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Chapter One

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It was raining. Or, rather, it was pouring. The heavy drops had pounded the soaked earth for more than a week, and it did not appear to be slowing. There was a chill in the air, one brought on by an early winter, though that wasn't the cause of my dreary mood. There was something amiss that I could not put my finger on, something that nagged at the back of my mind. Even before the rain and the cold, I had become aware of the fact that I was quite lonely. But lonely for what? I had moved to these woods for peace, which is exactly what I received, but now there was the lingering sense that perhaps my time had come to move on. I'd craved the quiet, and the solitude, and the knowledge that I had been depending on no one but myself for a long while. Now, however, my peace was at an end, though not from any outside source. It was me. I had driven myself back to needing something, or perhaps someone.

Shaking my head, I came away from the window and headed downstairs. My home of these past years was composed of stone and wood, not any of those synthetics from town. The floors gleamed in the pale light, and the rock fireplace stood empty. Sighing at the thought of another day out in the deluge, I slipped into my tall boots and heavy coat. Bracing myself, I opened the door and was instantly met with an icy mist. Quickly shutting the door, I bolted down the steps and out onto the gravel path to the barn. Thankfully, it was only a dozen yards away, though in this weather, those dozen yards felt like a mile. Reaching the large sliding doors, I struggled with their water-logged forms until one finally gave way. Practically falling in, I could hear the rustle of straw and the soft knickers telling me I was late. Barely managing to close the door again, I cursed at the weather; not that it did any good, mind you, but it made me feel better all the same.

Turning, I took in the state of my snug barn. No leaks, thank heavens, and there was still power. A lone feed pan sat on its side in the middle of the isle not far from me; no doubt someone had become tired of waiting for breakfast. Passing a few stalls, I came to the feed room, happy to oblige in filling their stomachs. Now more forceful knickers could be heard, as more and more of the residents demanded to go first. They all knew the routine, but for some reason, routine goes out the window on days like today.

Filling the cart with an assortment of grains and supplements, I wheeled it out into the alley-way and began the task of fending off hungry horses. Each of my five in training was too young to remember rain like this, and remained spooked no matter how I attempted to calm them. They ate in small bites, then turned round and round in their stalls, dropping most of their breakfast before swallowing it. The more adult horses, my two geldings and single mare, took it all in stride. All three had a laid back approach to the weather, as if to say, 'I am dry, warm, and fed. What else do I need?'. Lastly, I came to my ageing stallion. His liquid brown eyes always seem to look through me, weighing me to see my mood. I had raised him from a foal, and though many would have cut him to save on training problems, I could not bear to geld such an animal. Patting his neck, and smoothing down his rich red coat, I finally smiled. No matter the weather, my mood, or my loneliness, he could, without fail, cheer me up with a simple look. There was something to be said for the presence of a horse in your life. They were not like dogs, who forgave you no matter what, nor were they like cats, who couldn't care less about their human owners. No, they were a combination of loyalty and independence, forgiveness and long memory, passion and grace.

Exiting his stall, and putting away my feed equipment, I stood in the hall, debating on my next course of action. I could turn the younger ones out in the small indoor area while I cleaned stalls, though I was uncertain as to if the storm would spook them more in such a large area. Practicality won out over worry as I led each colt to the arena; thankfully, I'd had it attached to the barn. Satisfied that they were quite safe, and after watching them frolic for a few moments in their new found freedom, I turned back to the task at hand. Cleaning stalls had become almost therapeutic over the years. The repetition, the workout, the sense of accomplishment combined to soothe away troubles, at least for a short while.

After finishing with the colt's stalls, I switched out everyone and began working on the older horse's homes. My stallion I left inside; he would have the arena to himself. I was immensely grateful for the manners of my trained horses; they had a tendency to pile their manure in one spot, and usually that spot was in a corner. The younger ones were still getting used to the idea of standing for long periods of time in one place, and for the most part, cleaning their stalls involved a lot more hunting.

Again, I switched everyone out. The stud horse, well mannered though he be, still pranced next to me on our way out. I knew he felt full of himself from being cooped up for so long, but he never hinted at hurting me. _Maybe,_ I thought, _tomorrow wouldn't be so bad._ They all needed riding, but he was never one to take down-time well. Finally, I finished everyone's stall, fed hay, and filled water buckets. Glancing at my watch, I was surprised to see it was only eight-thirty in the morning. Checking everyone one last time, I braced myself and headed back out into the storm. With any luck, I would be able to make it to the house without being soaked.

Of course, things are never that easy. By the time I managed to slam my door shut, I was thoroughly waterlogged. Kicking off my boots, and shucking my coat off and onto a rack, I realized with a startled laugh that I was still in my pajamas. I _must be out of touch with reality today_. Traipsing upstairs, I headed straight for the shower. Odd, isn't it, that even though you are soaked to the bone, you still feel dirty? Turning the knob to the hottest setting, I stripped out of my saturated pj's, taking a long look in the foggy mirror. While I was not what you would call an average beauty, I had become quite pleased with my body. I had always been in excellent shape, but now, through the months of back-breaking labor and intense riding, my muscles had become hard and smooth. I still hated the long scar running from my neck to my shoulder, and the numerous, slightly smaller ones marring my stomach. They stood out as faint white lines against my dark tanned skin, but they were noticeable nonetheless.

As for my face, well, I suppose it was decent. Square jaw, petite nose and large black eyes lent me the look of an older generation, not the modern pretties seen about town. Sighing and shaking my long chocolate tresses, I stepped into the shower and allowed the water to pound over me, scalding my skin and sending waves of warmth through my aching muscles. I forced my thoughts away from the scene earlier in the morning, but my loneliness-that-was-not-loneliness came flooding back. Closing my eyes, I propped my forehead against the shower wall, wishing for all the world that the hot water would wash away my thoughts too. _Maybe tomorrow wouldn't be so bad…_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

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I woke to the sound of song-birds, their voices happily calling to one another in the new day. Sunlight shone through my window as I struggled with the bed covers; it seems that even the smallest things can be a challenge. Eventually, I scrambled out of my warm bed to delight in the sight of breaking storm clouds. While the air remained chilled, the sun did its job of cutting through the worst of the cold, and it immersed the world in a golden glow. _Finally._ The pain of the past night somewhat forgotten, I hurriedly dressed to start the day. The horses would be giddy in the newly found sunlight, and I wanted nothing more than to turn them out to bathe in its rays.

Eventually, I made it to the barn – after making certain that I was no longer in my pajamas – and was greeted by impatient nickering. I rushed through the feeding process, waiting anxiously for them to finish breakfast. It did not take long; the younger horses could sense my excitement, and they quickly bolted their feed. Soon, I was leading two at a time to their broad pasture, each one hopping from hoof to hoof in eagerness. I laughed for the first time in days at the sight of these young colts dashing back and forth in the mud, kicking up clods of grass and muck as they raced across the pasture. Shaking my head, I returned to the barn for the older horses, all three of which were eager to escape the confines of their stalls. Unlike the colts, however, they were content to merely roll in the muddy pools collecting around the area. The trio soon turned from gray and bay to solid brown, and they looked all the happier for it.

Finally, I went back for my stallion. I had better things in mind for him. His bold eyes glinted in the light as I pulled him from the stall and into the alley. Hooking him to the cross-ties, I went through the wonderful process of grooming his sleek, soon to be fuzzy coat. Satisfied that no straw or dirt remained on his proud form, I gently tossed up a thick pad, settling it on his withers. He stood stock still, though I could tell by the tremble in his legs that he was about to burst. I retrieved his saddle, and for the thousandth time, I threw it up on his back. Cinching it up, and grabbing a bridle, I lead him to the arena, where, for half an hour, we worked on warming up. At first he squealed and bucked, happy to oblige in the workout. Slowly, he settled in, and was ready for an actual ride.

There was one last item to be picked up on our way out, however: my long rifle. Things of unsavory nature still stalked the ancient woods, and I, while more than happy to oblige their claim to territory, wasn't so sure they would respect mine.

We struck out from the arena into the woods, the stallion sure-footed and pleased to be free from his stall. It was a form of therapy, sitting on a horse as it picks its way through a path. The sway of their hips, the soft sound of their hooves, and the occasional heavy breath combines in cocktail designed to ease the mind. I am not certain how far we rode, only that we did not want to stop. All too soon, though, we came across the only thing to bring our ride to an end: the river. After a week's worth of rain, it had swollen past its banks and roared past in a white fury. Reaching down to stroke the stallion's sweating neck, I noticed rather strange scoring on a toppled tree. _Odd._ Angling him to the deadwood, I passed several other marks, all of which seemed to radiate from a central point.

Puzzled, I stepped down, ground tying the stud and giving him a reassuring rub on the nose. No one in their right mind would have tried to cut wood in this weather; hell, no one in their right mind would have been _out _in this weather. Besides, the marks were higher up on the trees, almost chest level to me. Now very confused, I stood looking down the bank, both sides, trying to come up with an explanation for these mysterious nicks, cuts, and scrapes; there was a familiarity about their appearance began to knaw the farthest corner of my brain. Then something caught my eye.

A black lump protruded from the river, perhaps having washed up in the deluge. Giving the stallion another pat on the way by, I slowly picked my way through the debris and over to the dark shape. It was no animal, that much I could tell. But the way it was laying was vaguely familiar, the way your room is familiar after a long stay away. As I got closer, realization struck me, like a punch in the gut. _This was a person!_ Scrambling to their side, I immediately noticed two things: one, this person was not at all dressed as a hiker or camper, and two, they were breathing. Shallow and faint though it may be, they were drawing breath, even with their face in the muck. Hesitantly, I turned the person over, hoping beyond hope that nothing was broken and that I was not doing more damage.

His face was beautiful. Although painted in mud, he incredibly pale, there was an almost an ethereal quality about him, and his hair, though wet and filled with muck and debris, was far thicker than mine and darker than night. _Oh, now what? _My mind was shocked for a moment, and then instinct took over. I dragged him from the bank to a rocky outcropping, where the rain water had already begun to dry. Before I could take stock of his injuries, my eyes found the handgun clenched in his fist. It took me a moment to register what I was seeing. Yes, I too, carried a gun, but it was a rifle, made for the outdoors and not nearly as intricate. Cold chills settled into my spine, and I had to take a moment to register the situation. Here was a man, in the middle of the woods, on the bank of an angry river, found amongst suspicious scratch marks and clenching a gun. _Oh, god, what have I gotten myself in to?_

I fretted for a long moment over my next course of action. With a sigh that came from deep in my soul, I sank to my knees and began looking him over. Starting with neck, I worked my way down his body, feeling for broken bones or cuts: the latter I found in abundance. As I ripped open his thick black shirt, my hands came away blood red. There was good reason. Down his chest, and across his flat stomach were a series of deep, ragged wounds. They were still seeping blood, and I knew that if he was to live, I was going to have to stop the loss.

Tearing off my jacket, I slipped out of my over-shirt, shivering slightly in the cool mist from the raging river. Ripping the seams, I created a makeshift compress, which wrapped around his body and, for the time being, held him together. Donning the jacket once again, I called for the stallion, who until now, had been nibbling on sweet of grass. Heeding my call, the stud trotted over, happy to assist. _But I can't put him on this horse. It would kill him. _Casting around, my eyes lit on a pile of driftwood. Amongst the broken branches and large trunks were a half-dozen long, straight trees, presumably young saplings that had been swept downstream. Grateful that something was going right, I chose two of the straightest, and strongest. Dragging them over, I set them next to the fallen man, then went to my packs.

Always be prepared. Isn't that a motto for some organization? I pulled out a canvas tent, small, but just enough for an emergency overnight stay. Also snared from the saddle bags was a roll of heavy twine. My mind appeared to have shut down, but my body continued. It was almost as if I was watching someone else do these things. I lashed the two saplings together, then stretched the canvas over them. Tying tight the twine holding the tent to the poles, I finished the sled in only a few minutes. Backing the stallion to the frame, I settled the cross-piece over his flanks, and secured it to the saddle. _Now, I have to get the man on it._

Easier said than done. He might have looked like a light-weight, but his body was far more dense than I had previously thought. It had been easy to drag him from the river, but trying to manipulate him was something altogether more difficult. Eventually, with much trial and error, the wounded man was on the sled.

The stallion looked less than pleased at the situation, but graciously, he said nothing.

So, myself, my grumbling stallion, and a very unconscious stranger all struggled through the woods with some haste. Well, I can't very well say that _he_ struggled with the march. Had I been in control of my thoughts at the moment, I may very well have left him on the side of the river. I did not need such an entanglement, and I certainly did not need the trouble sure to follow him. Nonetheless, I hiked alongside the stallion for miles - my rifle on my shoulder - careful to make sure the wounded man remained stable, and trying desperately to recall if I had seen any signs of other creatures.

The sunlight was failing as my little band emerged from the wood. The stud horse, eager for dinner, pushed against my lead as he came within sight of the barn. Too, all my horses were milling about the entrance to their pastures, impatient to be fed. Ignoring them for the moment, I led the stallion to my back door, ground tying him once again. With some difficulty and a great deal of cursing, I managed to get the stranger into my living room, and onto my rare, deep pile rug. Fretting for a moment, I decided my attention needed to be on the stallion; don't ask me why, at the time it made perfect sense. With some haste, I brought the horse back to the barn, and stripped him quickly of his gear. Not wanting to shirk my duty – even though there was a dying man in my home – I scrubbed his coat and tied him in his stall. Promising to return after a while, I ran back to the house, slipping in the muddy holes littering the walkway.

Dashing in the door, I took a moment to breathe deeply while sliding out of my coat, and pulling off my shoes. I had no idea if this man was going to hurt me, or if his 'friends' would find him here. Pushing those thoughts away, I darted past his body, taking quick note that he was still breathing before striding into the store room. I returned a moment later with a full medical kit; I had been raised around precarious animals – of all sorts - most of my life, and I knew better than to assume I would never be seriously injured. First thing was first, though: he needed to be sewn up. My eye caught the fact that the fire was out, and I quickly decided that warmth would be his greatest ally. Tossing in a bit of kindling, I lit the little sticks and watched as the fire grew. Feeding it larger pieces until it was built up to a steady flame, I returned to the stranger. Frowning with worry, I tore through the medical kit until I found needles and thread, antiseptic, and sterile water. Gauze pads were also retrieved, and I set to work cleaning the wounds.

I have seen the clean white bone of a horse's shoulder while the muscle was peeled away by a fence, but nothing could compare to this man's injuries. Grateful that he was unconscious, I began the tedious work of putting him back together. I do not know how long I sat next to him, reattaching muscle to muscle, skin to skin. When at last I cut the thread for the final time, I began to notice the cramps in my legs. Ignoring them for the moment, I cleansed the wounds one last time and then wrapped them in gauze.

Now, the hard part came. Gingerly, I stripped him of his shirt, tossing it onto the tile of the kitchen floor. The exquisite gun in his hand remained where it was; it seemed as though clutching that weapon gave him strength, and I was not going to remove his lifeline. Making my way to his feet, I unlaced and then removed his boots and socks. Working my way back up to his trousers, I unfastened the buckle of his belt and unzipped the fly. Perhaps at this point I should have blushed, or maybe even felt guilty for what I was about to do. I did none of these things, however, as he was a man, and I had seen those before, though none this hauntingly beautiful. Why are people so ashamed of the human figure? I will never know.

With gentle tugs, I wormed the trousers off of his narrow hips and long legs. I must say I was mildly surprised at the fact that he had chosen to wear no boxers, or briefs for that matter. Pushing the thought aside, I went to work on the few minor scratches and cuts on his left thigh. Finishing up rather quickly, I rose to find blankets, which was not hard, seeing as how I had lived in the house for a long while, and quilting had become a calming diversion. Carting the blankets out from the laundry room, I tossed them over his cold form, and tucked them softly underneath him.

Fatigue finally hit me after I stood. I had not eaten since breakfast, and the hike had worn out my reserves. Shaking my head in a futile effort to banish the tiredness from my body, I turned and, with heavy feet, marched back to the barn, intent on taking care of my starving horses.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This is a very short connecting chapter. I needed to explain some things without adding it to the next chapter; it would have cluttered things immensely.

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Chapter Three

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The soft pop of the fire complimented the tic-tock of my grandfather clock. I had finished at the barn hours earlier, only finding myself unable to sleep, even though my body was robbed of all strength. I had settled onto the couch, a glass of wine keeping me company while my guest lay silent and still. For a long while I had debated my decision, but now, well, now I could only pray that my actions would not bring hell upon me and my life.

The stranger remained on my floor, covered from neck to toe in heavy blankets. I chewed on my lower lip, worrying on what would happen when he woke. Earlier in the day, I would have said he was gone, that the blood-loss took him, but seeing him continue to draw steady breaths, I was not so certain he wouldn't wake. I knew that the wounds were holding closed, and that he had broken through the fever; I was not so sure, however, if he would fully recover. To be so badly injured, to have put his body through that, it was a miracle he still had life in him when I stumbled upon him. Perhaps that is what caused me such worry: there are only so many men who can survive that kind of brutality.

To be sure, this stranger was a mix of confusing traits. His loveliness was evidence alone he was more than the normal gun-toting merc; most inherited a dirtiness from their actions, as though their sins came to rest on their bodies. He seemed above such a simple concept, although, while his face was free from blemish, his body was littered with stories from his past. Before, I had not noticed the fine scars tracing some unknown path over his strong frame, but as I cleaned the wounds for a second time, they stood out in sharp relief. I could not help but stare. Here was a man whose life was literally cut into his flesh, and as my fingers had run over them, it was all I could do not to shake. I _knew_ these scars, how they were made; such wounds came from blades sharper than a scalpel. Suddenly, I had not felt so safe in my own house.

There was one other oddity about this man which I found disturbing: his left hand was prosthetic. Not made from the hard plastics worn by war vets and accident victims, this arm felt nearly alive to the touch. I had only realized the truth when my fingers found the joints in his upper bicep, which had given up the secret. If I had not felt secure before, I was down-right frightened after finding such a piece of technology.

Shaking my head to banish such thoughts and finishing off my wine, I set the fine glass down on the thick mahogany table, and then curled up on the couch. I had felt this tired before, but it seemed so long ago, so very long ago. Inwardly, I sighed; even through the years of peace, I still remembered that bone-weary exhaustion, one that comes not only from the body, but from the mind as well. Drawing up my own blanket, I prepared to finally sleep. But such blessed oblivion would not come. Instead, I watched as the fire died to embers, its death-throes sputtering out an off-beat staccato to compete with the grand clock.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

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It is disorienting to wake up in your home, but not in your bed. Strange, that even though you find yourself in a familiar place, it seems, for a moment, completely foreign. I had fallen asleep, thankful for the darkness as it took me, though I was not allowed to bask in its company for long. The sound of a deep, rich chime roused me from my heavenly rest, its insistence prodding me along until I cast a resentful glare in its direction while obeying the command to rise. My eyes came to rest on the stranger on my floor, and for an instant, my heart leapt. Closing my eyes – and mentally berating myself for my reaction – I took in a deep breath, and then opened my eyes once more.

Yes, he was still there.

He did not look as though he had shifted at all during the night, and his hand remained tightly wound around the handgun. Checking his pulse and temperature, I found myself actually quite pleased with his headway. It was pride, I know, but it is difficult to let go of some things, no matter how much they have hurt you in the past. I gently lifted the cocoon of quilts, expecting much of the same from yesterday: blood soaked bandages and stained blankets. While I found both, the red tainted gauze was only slightly saturated, and the quilts had suffered no transfer. It was odd, how quickly he was progressing from near-dead to nearly-whole. Not wishing to dwell on one more possible problem, I decided to go feed the rowdy herd, hoping to give myself more time to think before I made another rash decision.

Having slept in my clothes, it was a short few minutes before I arrived at the barn. Soft nickering encouraged me to hurry, while a few loud cracks on the wall told me the younger horses were not so patient. _Everyone is in a rush today._ As the day before, and the day before that, I fed, turned out, cleaned stalls, and filled water buckets. The normal routine should have been soothing, but a nagging voice in the back of my head flustered me to the point of distraction. _What if he is a fugitive? Am I aiding in the escape of a murderer? _I had to scoff at the idea to keep myself from thinking on it too deeply. Perhaps it was because of my absent-mindedness that I forgot to latch the middle pasture gate, or maybe I was sub-consciously looking for an excuse to blame the stranger for another problem in my life. No matter the reason, I soon had five rambunctious colts tearing down the gravel road, each one savoring the freedom from normalcy. Cursing to myself, I threw a halter and lead on my stallion. He appeared quite put out at being pulled away from his morning hay, but nonetheless, he obliged. Popping onto his broad back, I urged him into a smooth lope, and we bolted from the barn after the escapees.

Ears pricked, the stallion soon settled into his ground eating stride, and we came upon the five troublemakers in little to no time. Slowing up, so as to not startle the children, I eased the stud horse in a wide circle, coming at the colts from behind. They milled about, nipping at the last green shoots of autumn growing right off the road. Of the five, I only had one to truly worry about; he would be the one to cause problems. The blood bay colt was always in the middle of whatever was going on, though many times he was the one who started the mess, a bit like an arsonist returning to watch his work. He lazily eyed the stallion, as though issuing a challenge as we came near; needless to say, this did not sit well with the older stud. Red ears flattened against his skull as I rode the horse closer, urging the colts to turn back the way they came. Four respectfully turned tail and ran, darting back to their familiar territory: the blood bay merely stood defiant.

He watched the stallion with cool indifference, and his sleek body – while still young – gave the air of supreme confidence. The colt was tall, already near the height of my stallion, but he did not have the bulk of the older horse. This was to my advantage. With a walk that stalked the young colt, the stallion crept closer, pushing him to take a step or be forcefully moved.

The colt reared.

Striking out, he caught the stallion's mane with one hoof, while the other missed entirely. By now, my horse had had enough. Without a sound, he lunged at the colt, bringing him crashing to the ground; contrary to popular belief, horses rarely make the barrage of noises seen on television. The stunned colt righted himself, showing his teeth and flattening his ears as he came back to his feet, but he knew better now than to have another stand-off. With a decisive snort, the young horse whipped around and streaked into a full out gallop; his speed was incredible, the muscles of his back and hip flexing with awesome power. Both I and my stallion released a frustrated sigh. Urging him on once again, we cantered back to the middle pasture, finding the other four colts grazing in their proper place. _At least _something_ has gone right._

Swinging the gate to while on the stallion, I leaned down in an attempt to secure the latch. While my eyes were downturned, I felt the stud shift uneasily underneath me. Fumbling with the lock for a few more seconds, I finally managed to throw the bolt home just as the thunder of hooves broke the silence. My eyes caught only the barest glimpse of a mahogany blur before my leg was ripped away from the stallion's side, and over his back; the colt had broadsided me, tossing me between the stud-horse and the gate. I managed to half-way catch myself on the rails, but as my horse stepped away to prevent an accidental trample, I slid the rest of four feet to land in deep muck.

The stallion moved between me and the colt, which stood only a few yards away, a superior glint shining in his dark eyes. Clawing my way out of the mud and who-knows-what-else, I managed to hang on to the stud's mane as he backed away from the gate. Now covered in brown slime and shivering to boot, I stared down the blood bay. This was not the first time he had been so much trouble, but instead of gelding him, I had the strange desire to leave him a stallion. Perhaps it was a bad choice on my part, but something inside told me that a creature as bold and free as he was should remain so. Had it not worked with my own stallion? Sighing at my apparent lack of sense, I gingerly lead the stud horse back to the barn, where I returned him to his hay. He happily munched along, though his large eyes constantly watched outside, and his pert ears swiveled around at the slightest sound.

Now I had to catch up the colt.

Shaking as the dirty water crept under my clothing, I dumped a few handfuls of grain into a bucket. Marching back out into the paddock around the barn, I shook the tempting treat. As much of a trouble-maker the colt was, he was also a bottomless pit. I never ceased to amaze me how much he could eat in a day, or even one sitting. Shaking it again, I heard the sound of hard hooves on wet ground, a slopping noise made when the concave soles of their feet made contact with mud. He came around the barn, ears alert and eyes bright. With sure strides, he made his way to me, never once appearing nervous or afraid; he knew who was in control.

I was tired of his games for the day, so instead of putting him back in the barn, I decided to merely lead him back into his pasture. Eagerly crunching his grain, the colt wandered along beside me, occasionally sticking his head back into the bucket to fill up another bite. After what seemed an eternity, I had the devilish horse back in his lot with the rest of his gang – though to put such a term to it makes them seem quite tame – and I trudged back to the house. I needed a hot shower and an even hotter cup of coffee.

I suppose it could be said that my mind had created this diversion to run me from the thoughts of the stranger, but as I approached the back door, they all came flooding back. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the knob before I chastised myself for my foolishness and fear. After stripping out of my soaked jacket and soggy boots and socks, I made my way to through the kitchen and into the living room. My unconscious guest was still resting, though it appeared he had moved while I had been out. The blankets were disturbed around him, and his lovely face lay against his shoulder.

Telling myself this was a good thing, I plodded up the stairs to my room, wishing, though not for the first time, that I had built a one level house. Peeling off the muddy layers and leaving them in a pile next to my door, I treated myself to a scalding shower. As the water pounded over me, I had the thought that perhaps the stranger would feel better if he were clean as well. I had to laugh at myself for the idea, but after taking a moment to think on it, I decided I could at least wash his hair and sponge off the river mud that still clung to him in places.

Some time later, I found myself on the floor with the stranger, a bowl of hot water and soap next to me. I had already stoked the fire, and it provided warm comfort to my turned back. As I sponged his body, more and more of the small scars appeared, and their pattern became apparent. They followed the contours of major tendons, and were concentrated on his joints. My mind raced with the possibilities, but they all seemed so far-fetched. Rather than let my imagination get the better of me, I focused on the new scars, the ones I had sewn up.

Peeling back the bandage, I had to suppress a startled cry as I saw just how quickly he was healing. The angry red welts under the black stitches had begun to fade into a pale version of themselves, while the blood that had been seeping out in places was now completely contained. In all my years of training, I had only once witnessed anything as remarkable. Stunned, I focused on cleaning off dried blood and fluids from around the wounds, marveling in new skin already growing to cover the lacerations.

I do not know how long I spent cleaning his body, but for some unknown reason, the act of washing him calmed my nerves, even after the rather shocking discoveries. Re-wrapping him, I tucked in the blankets and moved to his hair. As I had noticed before, it was long, thick and blacker-than-black. I reached for the bowl of clean water I had set on the hearth-stones to keep warm, then gently lifted his head to free the lengthy strands caught under him. Slipping the shallow bowl under his head, I slowly rinsed the muck and mire from the black locks. I do not know how many times I rose to change out the water, but after a time, I noticed the contents of the bowl were no longer murky, and his hair shone in the firelight.

Not satisfied to merely wash it, I laid a towel in my lap, and then cradled his head there. With a small comb, I gently pulled apart the mass of tangles, working small amounts of hair until it lay smooth. The repetition, the lack of thought needed to perform the task combined to quiet my mind and relax my body.

As with his skin, I did not notice how much time had passed while I washed and combed his hair, that is, until I had a difficult time seeing in the failing light. My fire had begun to smolder as only embers, and when I looked to the grandfather clock – the same that had forced me from sleep earlier in the day – it told me I should be out working horses. Sighing, I looked down into the stranger's face. In the dim glow, his features were even more radiant, and for the first time, I noticed how truly _masculine_ he seemed. To be fair, his features were refined and lacked the square quality generally associated with the male gender, but those traits did not detract from his haunting beauty.

Catching myself from going any further down that line, I struggled to stand on numb legs. Gathering up my supplies, I cast one last look at the sleep form on my rug before heading off back to the barn. Sure, I had a disturbingly handsome man on my living room floor, but I had horses to train, and he could wait. Sometimes, logic makes very little sense.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: This chapter has plagued me for weeks. It ends abruptly, I know, but it was the only stopping point I was going to get to, unless I went for about 3,000 more words. So I decided to let it end where it ended, and hope for the best.

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

I had taken my time with the horses. They gave me the chance to think without actually forcing me into conversation. Without a doubt, I would be sore the next day, or perhaps even later that evening, but nothing could compare to the soothing quality of being around those animals; or, rather, _some_ of those animals. The blood bay eyed me from his stall each time I walked by, as though he was gauging my reaction from his little stunt earlier. I must admit, for a while I fumed at him, but such petty emotion only hinders in horse training. With any training, actually.

I was bone tired by the time I stumbled back into the house, tossing off shoes and socks and clothing as I walked, eager to be back in my shower. Odd, that until the stranger came rather abruptly into my life, I had never spent more than a few minutes in the shower at any one time. Now it seemed I was racing away to be under the steaming water at every chance I got. Striding past my guest on the floor, I cast a cursory glance over his prone form; when my brain realized what it saw, I nearly fell over the coffee table.

He had been awake, or at least partially so. The blankets were bunched around his waist, displaying his lithe form and the stained bandages wrapped around his torso. Righting myself, I staggered back to his side, and knelt down, wondering if he would wake while I was near. The stranger's hand still tightly grasped the intricate handgun, but now it was held away from him, as though he had attempted to rise with it clenched in his fist. Licking my chapped lips - more for something to do than for any real benefit - I hesitantly reached out and drew the blankets back around him, leaving his arms free in case he wished to sit up again.

My mind flew through the possibilities: he would be able to leave soon, my life would be back to normal, I would not have to worry about someone else dying on my watch. Even as these thoughts rattled around in my head, I knew that I was being both naive and selfish. If this person needed to stay, then he should stay; I was in no position to tell him otherwise. _Why are things always so damn complicated?_ I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose with one hand in the vain hope that it would scare off my blossoming headache.

As I sat, I could hear a change in my guest's breathing, a sign that he was waking. Frustrated now, with the fight within myself and the pressure to do what was 'right,' I fell into a deep state of unrest. _Couldn't I have just left him?_ The thought was immediately beaten back by the guilt I felt for thinking it. Of course I could not have walked away from him. He had been beckoning Death, and She was a most willing partner, a partner I was all too familiar with to allow another soul into Her arms. I suddenly felt very sick to my stomach, as though my mental struggle had carried over into my body. Scrubbing my face with my hands, I sighed deeply before opening my black eyes once more.

Twin pools of crimson stared back at me.

I could feel myself sucking in a sharp breath, but I could not make my lungs work. Those eyes. They burned into me with a steady, cold fury that caused my heart to leap into my throat. I had seen eyes like that before, glowing darkly from the shadows of tall buildings, tracking me from the blackness; I had never thought to see them again. I had prayed fervently for those eyes to remain in my past. And now here they were, dragging me into panic once again.

After what seemed an eternity of dread, I could feel my chest rising and falling with the effort to breathe, and my voice returned. He did not move, this stranger-of-mine, but the coiled muscle he was bound in gave no illusion that he was incapable of springing up at the slightest provocation. I was battling with my body to remain where I was, by his side, but those eyes prodded me to flee.

Perhaps it is my nature that compels me to break tension with words, or maybe I was striving to find a way around my alarm. Then again, mayhap my mind was attempting to take charge of a situation rapidly spinning out of my control. Whatever the reason, my lips moved before I had the foresight to keep them closed.

"Welcome back."

Those two words shattered the tenuous silence with more force than a ten ton bomb. He blinked, slowly, as though endeavoring to register the meaning to what I had said. The corded muscles in his lithe frame loosened then, and while I cannot say that he relaxed, the sense that he would run at any moment seemed to have passed.

My guest said nothing response, instead choosing to roam his gaze over me, stripping me down to nothing with only his eyes. I could not help but shudder as those scarlet orbs met my stare. Not knowing what to do, I simply kept quiet while he took in his surroundings, the quick movements of his eyes a tell-tale sign of someone long in the business of rapidly taking in information and processing it with ease.

I am not certain how long we both sat there, neither one of us willing to be the first to make a move after my outburst. Finally, he exhaled a tense breath, then met my eyes once more. Admittedly, I would rather not have looked back at him, but the same part of me that wanted to break the silence also shoved my gaze back to his. He said nothing, but rather continued to stare through me in a way that made me more than vaguely uncomfortable.

When my nerves had had enough, I managed to jerk away from his stare long enough to form more than just the fractious sentences floating around in my head.

"I am going to shower. When I return, I'll…make you dinner."

The fact that I mentioned I was going to shower did not appear to register with the stranger – something I had not planned on telling him until my mouth opened – but my comment on dinner seemed to puzzle him. At his furrowed brow, I continued.

"You have been unconscious for two days, and I'm fairly certain you'll need something to eat if you hope to continue healing."

So, maybe I was pushing my luck with this man now; before, when he had been laying in a heap on my floor with no hint at conscious thought, I had no problem fussing over him. But now? Now, it felt as though everything I was doing or had done was a transgression against him, and I hated the feeling. Once again, I was frustrated at something intangible, something I could do nothing about. I could not help the scowl that crossed my face as I stood, and try as I might, I was unable to hold back one last comment.

"I urge you to remain where you are until I am finished, though I doubt you will be so accommodating."

Why was I being so dammed spiteful? Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose I was feeling the past two days coming back in a rush, two days of me doting on someone who had thrown my simple yet comfortable lifestyle on edge, tossing me back into the hellish mix of strangers and risk.

His eyes held no emotion in reaction to my rather malicious comment. In fact, I noticed that his features were perfectly schooled to display nothing of what he was feeling; the odd sensation of déjà vu washed over me as I looked into those eyes, and I quickly, and rather abruptly, stood. My stranger should have appeared somewhat smaller for being at my feet, but this man did not diminish in my eyes. He gazed at me coolly, as though I were the subject of some rather interesting – though boring – research.

Without another word, I trooped up the stairs to my room, whereupon entering, I immediately and violently threw my clothing as I undressed. _Who was this man to invade my home? To wreck the peace I have found?_ Even as I thought the words, I knew them to be unrealistic. He had not come into my home: I had brought him there. And as for peace? I had not known that in some time, though I had deluded myself into believing the quiet solitude I had found would equal solace.

I stepped into the frigid water of my cold shower, watching as the water washed away the grime from my ride, wishing that it could do the same to the tumultuous emotions I could not keep in check.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

* * *

Though my emotions were still warring with themselves, my mind had become settled during the shower. I did not like the agreement I had made with myself, but it was too late to do anything else, really. Besides, I have tried to talk myself out of things before, only to realize in the end that I can be quite stubborn. So, soon after leaving the comfort and warmth of my bathroom, I found myself trudging back downstairs with the full intent on breezing past my stranger and into the kitchen. I halted halfway down, taking stock of my 'guest'. Surprisingly, he had done as I requested, and remained where he was. Satisfied that perhaps he was not going to be as large of a problem as I originally thought, I ambled down the last remaining stairs, fully set on waltzing by the stranger.

My plan was working until the crimson-eyed man spoke.

"I do not know where this is."

His voice was the perfect complement to his body; smooth, dark and quiet. My toes had just found the edge of the thick rug he was laying on when those words split the silence. My gait hitched slightly, attempting not to show I had been caught off guard by his statement; I know I failed miserably. Taking in a heavy breath, I let it out slowly as I continued my trek to the relative safety of the kitchen. I could feel those red, red eyes following me, their intensity causing the skin between my shoulder blades to tingle. The desire to bolt around the counter was increasing with every stride, and though I had practice with this feeling, I struggled to place one foot in front of the other, each step hopefully falling as sure and resolute as the first.

After what felt like a millennium, I rounded the heavy oak counter and finally faced the stranger. He was still watching me, but there was a cold, detached manner in which he studied me that only furthered my desire to remain civil; if he could be so distant, then by God, so could I.

I took my time before answering him, not certain of what I should say. In reality, I suppose I should have just come out and told him exactly where he was, and with whom. But reality has a strange way of flitting by without stopping to say hello. So I stood, hands flat on the bar, staring back at him. With a heavy tongue, I forced the words from my lips, hoping my answer would suffice so that I could begin dinner.

"You are five hours from anywhere."

I turned to go further into the kitchen, my mind racing. _Is that enough? _I did not think that a man such as he would be satisfied with my an answer, but I was completely at a loss as to what I should tell him, if indeed I should tell him anything at all. As I reached for the pantry doors, I could not help but to speak up once again.

"You are in my home."

I opened the doors, more to have something to do than to actually look for anything in particular. My tongue felt thick in my mouth, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to force my tumbling thoughts into cohesive, linear streams. I rummaged around a bit in the pantry, hoping to find, well, _something_ to inspire my dinner creation. Finally settling on a few russet potatoes and beef stock, I struggled to close the folding doors.

It was in that moment in which I knew something was amiss. My heart beat a loud staccato against my ribs, and my brain screamed for me to turn around. Heeding both, I quit my fumbling and turned.

My stranger stood not two feet from me.

Now, there are a number of things that can happen in response to a situation like this: one, you scream loudly, drop what you are holding and try to run; two, you scream loudly, drop what you are holding and begin to shake because you cannot move; or three, you do nothing, and pray to God that the things you are thinking are not being broadcast to the world. For me, the reaction was one I have always relied on, and it has served me well in the past: I did nothing. To my credit, I did not scream, nor did I drop what I was carrying. Instead, I gripped the can of stock all the more, and clenched the potatoes as though they were a life line.

It was those eyes, those scarlet eyes. If ever there was a moment in which fire could burn cold, this was it. His ember gaze pinned me down, not unlike the needle a butterfly collector uses to hold down a favorite specimen. My mind went blank, and suddenly I did not have to worry about attempting to find the right words; there simply were none.

How long I stood and stared I will never know. However, I do know that my mind finally registered the fact that this man still held his gun in one hand, something I could berate myself for leaving with him later; he held it to his side, relaxed, though I knew it could be brought to my face at any moment, with only the slightest of effort from my guest. For now, I simply forced myself to remain still, to breathe, and most of all, to rein in the hailstorm of emotions raging through my body.

It was during this internal battle of wills that he spoke up, his eyes never leaving mine, although they narrowed slightly, the furrows they created in his brow somewhat incongruous with his youthfulness.

"Who are you?"

A simple enough question, I suppose, but one I dearly wished not to answer. Once he had my name, he had a great deal more than I was willing to give; if he was only a tenth as good as I thought he was, then 'just a name' could become a deal-breaker.

While I fought - once again – with the feelings racing around my heart and head, I had the momentary clarity of thought to realize my stranger had wrapped one of the brightly coloured quilts around his lower half, ostensibly to provide some amount of modesty; what _he _would need modesty for, I could only guess. And suddenly, even though this man loomed over me and exuded no small aura of dark power, my mind found the entire situation rather comical.

In that moment, I found my answer and my tongue - though I admit I needed to pry it off of the roof of my mouth.

"I am merely the person who pulled your soggy body from the river."

Without another thought, I brushed by him, mentally biting my lip to keep from falling back into awe at his sheer presence. I unceremoniously dumped the can and potatoes onto the counter, all the while, my brain telling me that his eyes had not left me - knowledge that I could have done without. Bending down, I ransacked my cupboard for a deep pot and a skillet, both of which were in the furthest reaches of the shelves; typical, that the thing you want is always the last thing you find.

When I realized I would have to reach further back, I sighed. Giving in, I crouched down, balancing on the balls of my feet while I scrounged through my cookware to finally put hands on the objects of my hunt. As my fingers closed around the handle of the skillet, my body once again told me that something was not right. I tensed, waiting to see if my abrupt anxiousness would prove unfounded; I did not have to wait long. The stranger was taking soft, near silent steps to me, finally halting at my back.

I do not know if you have ever felt the overwhelming desire to either lash out or run, but I can assure you, neither is pleasant. Slowly, I slid both the pot and the skillet from their resting places, taking in a deep breath in the process. With deliberate actions, I rose from my crouched position, almost as though I was attempting not to spook a timid horse. Now that I was standing - my back still to him – the feeling to flee or fight became more intense. More to calm myself than to prevent any misunderstanding on his part, I gently laid the cookware on the counter in front of me, exhaling heavily through my nose.

Before I could turn, however, the stranger-of-mine gave life again to the now hated question.

"Who are you?"

There resonated in his voice now a timbre of command, as though he was very much acquainted with asking a question and having it answered out of hand. My anger ruffled then, and I fought hard to quell it before I said something truly regrettable. Now, more than ever, I debated with myself as to why I had brought this man into my home; in the end, of course, I came to the exact same conclusion.

Having defeated myself once more, I released a deep sigh. I reached out to open the spice cabinet with hands that were surprisingly steady, and with more than a little snippiness in my tone, I answered him.

"Aside from the person who saved your neck? Well, I am also the one who sewed you up, gave you a bath, and who is about to cook your dinner."

I was suddenly venting on my guest, releasing just a minuscule amount of the frustration that had been piling up since I first dragged him from the river; I had calmed myself, so this was not anger speaking, but something intangible, more subtle than out-right rage. Forgetting for the moment who I was talking to, I pivoted around to face him, more words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them.

"And someone who will be _very_ put out if you ruin in five minutes what it took five hours to put back together."

And there I was. Face to face with my stranger, who for the moment appeared so tight that I was certain he might pull himself apart. I could not breathe, could not think, let alone continue with my little rant. His face was closed, but I could read his body language, and it screamed for reaction. My eyes would not pull away from those crimson orbs, and my own body would not move.

Through sheer force of will, I managed to squash the fear rising inside of me, enough at least to take in a tentative breath. When my stranger remained silent, I decided that he would not continue until I had answered his question properly and in full; I would not give him the satisfaction of scaring me into it. Perhaps that is why I suddenly found myself smirking at him, as the notion of being coerced into doing _anything_ was laughable to me. Even in my long-ago past, there had been those to try such a thing, and they all failed as hard as they tried. No, I would not let this man, dressed in my hand-made quilt and toting an elegant handgun, frighten me to acting outside of my will.

With such a thought in mind, I matched his stare, crossing my arms as a physical showing of my mental state. He seemed perplexed at my actions, which boded well for me; if ever you can, keep your opponent guessing. Back on solid ground, I felt able to continue with my previous thoughts, albeit with a new attitude.

"Now, unless you've a way to chop vegetables with that hardware of yours, you are useless here. Go sit back down."

My tone brooked no argument, and to my utter surprise, the stranger did not offer one. Instead, he took a single step back, then turned to retreat from my kitchen. You could not have shocked me more if you had paraded pink elephants with parasols through my house. I watched in near awe as he went back to the living room, and that is when I noticed for the first time just how weak he truly was; his stride faltered near the couch, and his shoulders had the slump of someone carrying the weight of three lifetimes. I knew these signs perhaps better than anyone, having displayed them many times before. I understood, finally, what kind of pain he must had been in while standing before me, and it - almost - caused a pang of remorse to hit my heart.

Shoving aside the utter foolishness he had displayed in order to merely get my name, I went back to hunting through my cabinets. Over the sounds of my rustling, I could hear the faint protests of my aged couch as he sat down; it bolstered the budding confidence growing inside me, knowing that he could and would take orders when need be. Satisfied now that I would not turn around and come face to face with him again, I began the dance that had helped me through so many nights: peel the vegetables, boil the water, slice the meat, add the spice, on and on and on until I was lost in the action of _creating_.

It was in the midst of this wonderful reprieve that a rather bothersome thought came to me: I had vowed to be civil and accommodating, yet I had not answered his question, and I had even snapped at him for no other reason than my own misplaced fear. _Would giving him my name be truly that detrimental?_ I had slowed my stirring of the contents of the pot, mulling over my choices. Mayhaps telling him only part of my name would suffice, and it would solve two problems: one, that this stranger wished to know who I was and two, I would not feel so paranoid by denying it to him.

So, once again, my mouth opened before I could stop it, and those four, feared little words came tumbling out.

"My name is Aisha."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: I threw this one out here for now, even though it just kind of...ends. I've never really liked it, but here it is regardless.

* * *

Chapter Seven

* * *

Over a week had passed since my stranger awoke, and in that time I had discovered in him a rather interesting trait: he absolutely _despised _being cared for, even more so by a person he did not know.

Although, I am quite certain if he _did _know me, it would have made little difference.

It was in this time that we came to our current tentative arrangement: I would not make any attempt at aiding him unless absolutely necessary and he in turn would stay out of my way as much as possible. Not hard, when you consider how weak he was.

That first night of our truce was a trial, of both our sanities. He had, in the end - and with a great deal of reluctance - allowed me to help him. Granted, he was far from amiable, but he did not have a choice; he was simply too weak to continue maintaining his somber, rigid attitude. That elegant and disturbingly familiar handgun had remained locked tightly as ever in his hand, and while I had wished for it to be as far away from me as possible – and by extension, him – I would never have asked him to release it. It was as though this weapon was the only shred he had remaining of his reason. If such a thing eased his mind and tempered his mood, then I had been in no hurry to take it from him.

That sentiment had changed in an instant...

I had wandered over to the couch where he had so disdainfully lodged himself with a bowl of broth and water, both of which were in clay containers. There was a look in his red eyes that told me I was to keep my distance; of course, I was more than willing to oblige. Carefully, I set them on the coffee table and then turned back to the kitchen; I hated having my back to the man, but I was not about to show just how unnerved I was to have him stare. My aforementioned kitchen was in a state of complete disarray. Pots were either half-full or entirely empty, awaiting a hot bath. Most of my skillets were covered in sauces or the remainders of brazed meats. I had to sigh to myself for the mess I had made, though my father always chided me for wanting to keep a clean kitchen as I cooked; a messy kitchen is the sign of a good cook, or so he said.

The pot still filled with the stew I had concocted was sitting on the stove, waiting for its lid and then a trip to the refrigerator; it was the only thing in the disaster area that appeared neat. Forgetting - for a moment - my stranger, I slumped against the counter and scrubbed my face with one hand. _What is wrong with me?_ In a normal situation, the act of creating something, be it a stew, a quilt or even a fire, would calm me and soothe my nerves. Now, I could not find the words for what I needed, but I knew it was not what I had done. Frustrated for the hundredth time that day, I began running hot water into the sink and tossing in utensils. They made a rather satisfying clinking noise as they impacted against the porcelain sink, and they were followed up by the heavier tones of the skillet and a small pot.

Rolling up my sleeves, I dunked my hands into the scalding hot water. After having worked in the great outdoors for so long, my hands were callused and rough, not at all sensitive to the searing heat. Adding a bit of soap, I began furiously scouring the skillet, scrubbing off the stubborn bits of grease and meat morsels. In the middle of a stroke – while being rather cross at my cookware – the sound of choking caught my attention. Brushing aside a strand of unruly hair with my forearm, I could see the obvious trouble my stranger was having. Cursing myself once again for taking in this man, I rinsed my hands and made my way back to the couch.

My guest had settled the bowl into his lap, and was attempting to feed himself while sitting up. Each spoonful was a battle, as he was required to lean down, doubling over the most grievous of his wounds and causing the muscles of his stomach and ribs to contract in protest. What I had heard was one of the instances when he could not swallow, breathe, and remain bent over at the same time; his body was fighting against him and it was winning.

He had dropped his spoon, and was bent over in noticeable pain. His free hand was pressed firmly against his ribs, fingers gripping the muscles. Though his red eyes had been tightly closed, when I approached they flew open and hit me with a hard stare. Instantly, my body was assaulted with the very plain message of _go away_. Swallowing, I forced my feet to continue moving, to get closer to a very dangerous, wounded animal.

As I made my way around the coffee table, I could finally see through his thick black mane; his lips were parted and he was trying to suck in air, though with the way he was sitting, none would be able to fill his lungs. Once again, those eyes found me and demanded that I stay away.

Of course, I ignored them.

Tentatively, I eased the rest of the way around the table, ending up at his side. Rather cautiously, I stretched down to retrieve the spoon, garnering a wary and heated glance from my stranger. Already bent over, I decided that perhaps he would do better if I was to be on his level; with most animals, they feel less threatened if you are not standing above them. Slowly, and with extreme care, I knelt down beside him. From that angle, it became all the more obvious that he was in a great deal of suffering. His disturbing eyes were fighting to remain open, though with every wave of agony they were forced closed. The hand wrapped around his body was gripping harder and harder, as though adding more pain would take the rest away.

I needed him to lay down, to relax the muscles that were reflexively tightening and preventing him from breathing. Before I could think and tell myself not to, I was reaching for the bowl of soup still resting in his lap.

It was a grave mistake.

Instantly, that hated handgun was in my face, and all motion in the room had ceased. His blood coloured eyes were fixed on my own, and he had stopped fighting for air. There was a moment in which I could not form a thought, but it vanished when a torrent of memories and images came flooding into my mind. They all screamed for attention, glad to be free of their restraints. In my father's voice, my trainer's voice, my partner's voice…I could not stop them…

_Run from the devil, child. Run, run, run. Never stop. Never quit. Are you going to quit? Are you going to flee? Give up? Fight. Always fight. Always push the advantage. Make them pay. Do not leave them their sanity. Break them. Bring their blood. Cut hard, cut deep. More blood. Cut fight bleed run kill …KILL._

And then I heard the distinct _click_ of a cocking gun.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

* * *

My mind slammed to a sudden and screeching stop.

The barrel of his gun was scant centimeters from my eyes, and it was held with rock steady purpose. Though deadly it may have been, the weapon so close to my face was not what held my rapt attention: it was my stranger's eyes. They were smoldering with an infernal light, the colour of fresh blood. The hellish thoughts once running rampant in my head were silenced under his gaze, and swiftly I corralled them back into the farthest reaches of my mind. But how long I had knelt there, or how long I had been staring, I will never know. Hours? Seconds? After forcing my mind into working, I could think again, although I was not certain I wanted to. It was in that moment I realized we were both holding our breath, waiting for the signal that would trigger the violence hanging heavily in the air.

A thin film of sweat had coated my forehead and palms. I wanted to swallow, to scream, to dare him to do it. With as much composure as I could muster, I pried my tongue from the roof of my mouth and wet my lips. He tensed at that small movement, and I knew, beyond a doubt, that he would kill me without another thought.

At a total loss, and beginning to shake from the awkward position, I fell back to my old stand-by.

"Your bravado is quite manly, but I can't help you with that thing in my face."

I knew my voice was not as steady as I would have liked, but it was far more level than I had expected. I had yet to take my eyes from his, which is the only reason I noticed their near invisible widening at my words. _So you _can_ be surprised._ Neither of us had yet to move, though I could see the quite evident tremors in his body and hand. If I was patient, I knew he would eventually keel over in pain.

Once again, I sabotaged myself.

With small motions, I began to slide the bowl to me, keeping his gaze and never moving more than a few inches at a time. He had yet to breathe, and for a moment, I became worried. Concern must have flitted over my face, as his eyes narrowed and the gun wavered – though only just. Bolstered by this sudden yet tentative response, I gently pulled the bowl from his quilt covered lap. My stranger's eyes remained wary but he did not press the issue.

Carefully, I gripped the still-full bowl in one hand and with my other, reached out to feel for the table. My fingers found the cool hardwood an instant before my stranger's gun dipped low. A flash of worry beat my heart out of rhythm, causing me to nearly drop the bowl. The man's forehead was beaded with sweat, and his entire body had begun to shake. His red eyes abruptly widened, along with his mouth as he suddenly fought to suck in air. Forgetting the bowl, I did not hear the clatter as I tipped it onto the table, its contents spreading quickly over the smooth surface; my mind and body had already begun to react to this new change of events. Shoving aside my reservations about coming so close to this wounded animal, I rose up to my knees and snared his forearm.

This time, he did not fight back, though the nearly imperceptible shake of his head was enough to tell me that even now, he was not willing to accept help. Ignoring this warning as I had on numerous other occasions, I seized his other arm. With no time to be gentle, I tugged at both arms, meeting his wide eyes. A litany of worries flew through my head, but I did not have the presence of mind to worry about them. His crimson stare burned into me still, but now he had nothing with which to back it up. In as calm, commanding tone as I could gather, I tempted my hand at diplomacy.

"I need you to lie down. _Now_. You are going to die unless you breathe."

I have no way of knowing if it was his condition or my words that caused him to fall back onto the couch; his head, thankfully, rested on top of the overstuffed arm. Quickly, I lifted his legs to the couch as well, allowing his body to straighten to its fullest. Still on my knees, I maneuvered back to his chest and hovered near his face. His free hand still clutched at his ribs, and it was plain to see that unless he regained control, he was not going to last. A stray thought wormed its way into my consciousness, impossible to resist and very insistent; try as I might, I could not pull away from it. I did not need such sentiment clouding my judgment – little as there was – and I certainly did not need it at that moment. With my face so close to his, watching this proud man gasp for air, the only thought I could form was that _he is going to die and I will not be able to stop it. _

It shook me to my core, this feeling of complete helplessness for someone I had only just met and certainly held no allegiance to.

With the mental equivalent of moving a mountain, I dislodged such a thought and bent my mind to the task at hand. My stranger was now gasping, his chest rising and falling erratically. Certain of my actions but not his response, I placed my hand flat on his chest, mentally noting that he was burning with fever. His eyes were closed once again as he fought for every breath. With more nerve than I thought I possessed, I bent over and placed my own face a few inches from his own.

"Open your eyes. Look at me."

My voice was remarkably composed, which surprised even myself. It did not, however, provoke a reaction by the stranger. A flash of unexpected anger shot through me. _I am not doing this for my own health!_ I gripped his chin with my free hand and repeated myself, with an unmistakable heat in my words.

"Dammit, _look at me._"

Those red eyes jerked open, and for the first time, I did not feel the instinctual urge to run. It appeared as though there was too much sensory input for him to react to it all; he was shutting down in defense. Tightening my hold on his face, I brought him closer to me.

"Raise my hand with your chest."

My stranger did not comply, as if to have one more moment of defiance. At that instant, I had had enough. Snarling in his face, I pressed relentlessly on his sternum.

"_Do it_. Now. Or you will die."

Abruptly, his chest rose, shaky but less erratic. As he exhaled, that rhythm disappeared. I pushed harder.

"_Again_."

His chest rose, a bit more stable than before.

"Again."

My stranger took a deeper breath, and I could feel his lungs expanding under my fingers. When he exhaled, there was no more shaking. I lost a bit of my anger then, but I needed him to continue the exercise.

"And again."

Once again, he inhaled, raising my hand as it rested on his chest. His eyes were locked onto mine, and I was suddenly very aware of how close I was to the man. The anger I had felt before, that had fueled my actions and coloured my words, rapidly cooled, leaving me with only a tired and confused will. I released his chin, my fingers wet with sweat; whether it was his or mine, I couldn't tell. His chest rose and fell under my hand, and it too was slick with sweat; I was not going to remove that hand until I was certain his breathing had returned to normal.

My stranger's eyes had begun to take on their habitual hardness, and I could nearly see the barriers being put back into place, walling me off from whatever facet he did not want known. Before he shut me out entirely, I took the opportunity to give him another order.

"If this happens when I am not here, remember how my hand felt, and how you moved it."

Then, of course, I let slip a fragment of what I was feeling.

"But by God, if you nearly ruin my hard work again, I;ll kill you myself."

I immediately bit back my words to keep more from tumbling out; I was obviously not thinking clearly. His red eyes, however, narrowed slightly in what I could only assume to be a startled gesture. _Nice to know I haven't lost my touch_. Breaking his gaze, I retracted my hand from his chest. My eyes wandered over to his handgun, and for half of a second I thought he would use it regardless of what I had just done. Pushing that thought aside, I rocked back onto my heels and stood. My stranger seemed smaller to me now, but no less dangerous; it was as though I had seen something of him, a part of him that he kept reserved for only the darkest, deepest nights, when no one could judge or ridicule him. _No, I do not want this. I did not ask for this. He is a stranger. No one I wish to know._

I knew it was a lie before I even thought it. The moment I chose to pull him from the river is the moment I decided to allow him into my home, and all that went with it. I had tried – in vain – to remain detached and remote, but now I knew something about him that I was certain few ever saw; I could in no way continue on in my indifference. Or at least, my feigned indifference.

My head jerked to the side as I forcefully ejected those thoughts from the front of my mind. Not looking back to my stranger, I bent down and retrieved the upturned bowl and glass. With stiff movements I walked to the kitchen, hoping beyond hope that he would not see the uncertainty in my stride. I placed both containers gently into the hot water, suddenly worried I might break one. _Stop this. You are the same. Nothing to fret over…_

Sighing deeply, I went to the cupboard and retrieved another bowl and glass. Each action was now very methodical; my hands reaching for the soup ladle moved now with an automatic feel, my mind sluggishly trudging onward. I refilled the bowl with broth, and the glass with water. Before I left the kitchen, I snared a towel.

I did not look at him when I returned. Instead, my eyes wandered over the coffee table and the spilled contents of the last unfortunate bowl. I had to ignore my stranger for now; there was no way for me to function if I continued to pull at _that_ never-healing wound in my mind. I knelt on the side opposite of my guest, scooting the new containers to the non-soup covered portion of the table. With the towel I gently sopped up the aromatic liquid, thankful that I had given him only broth and not the heavy contents of the stew. Through it all, I could feel his eyes on me, watching each move and weighing every action. To have someone stare at you is an unsettling feeling, and it prickled in the back of my mind, which in turn demanded that I face the stranger.

Then rose up the same defiance that fueled me to meet his gaze the first moment his red eyes opened. _What is wrong with me? He is one man. I have dealt with far worse. This is nothing. _My mind worked furiously to coerce my current situation and my normal state of being into harmony; needless to say, it was failing. Once again, I was angry because this man had invaded my home and tossed out all sense of normalcy. But then I was forced to admit that he did not come to my home on his free will; _I_ brought him in. It was my own fault that he was sitting not two feet from me, staring at me with his cold, disdainful eyes and judging me…

It was then I realized that I had been scrubbing the same spot on the table for who knew how long. The spilled soup had soaked into the towel, and all I had been doing was to make the mess a bit worse. It took me a few seconds before I was able to register what had happened, but when the comedic situation fully sank in, I broke out into laughter. I laughed because I had been foolish. I laughed because I was allowing a situation to run away with me. I laughed because I was more than capable to be what he needed and what I wanted. And I laughed for the sheer silliness of it all.

I am certain if my stranger did not think me unhinged before, he now undoubtedly thought of me as crazed.

Folding up the towel, I carefully made my way back to the kitchen, my footsteps light. The worry and dark shadows that had clawed at my mind were eased, allowing me to return to myself. It was as though I had finally broke the surface after being too long under. After dropping the soaked towel into the empty portion of the sink, I rested for a moment against the counter while gathering my thoughts. _I am going to be alright. I just have to remember to breathe._ That thought nudged another chuckle from me, and I could only shake my head at the stupidity I had brought onto myself in the last twenty minutes.

From the corner of my eye I caught the stranger's gaze; he had been watching me with the same intensity as before, but now a suspicious light lurked in his eyes. With my new-found vitality I had the presence of mind to arch an eyebrow in his direction before I turned on the water. Rinsing my hands – and the towel – with the scalding water, I had a moment to think; perhaps not the wisest of choices, but it has often been proved that I rarely make those. _I am going to have to feed him. _This was not the something I had wanted to think about, but it was there nonetheless. Cutting off the water and drying my hands, I gathered my wits and returned to the living room.

Immediately I was assaulted by my stranger's glare, his entire being radiating an aura of menace designed to drive me away; it made little difference to my plan. He did not attempt to sit up, nor did he make a move to speak when I approached the couch. Kneeling once more, I scooped up the bowl and faced my guest. His gaze was both frigid and hot, reminding me of dichotomy of blue flames; they are the hottest in a fire, yet their colour represents a frozen world. Matter-of-factly I leaned closer, holding the bowl before me. This time, his red eyes narrowed as he forced out a question.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was rough, but no less terse. Rolling my eyes, lifted the bowl a bit higher to fill his vision.

"You cannot eat sitting up. And you certainly can't eat with one arm while lying down. So. I am going to help you."

I had left him with a choice: put down the gun or be fed. I was not entirely sure which he would choose, but I knew he was going to make even this simple matter into a debate. He sat for a moment, studying me, as if mulling over my words to gauge my seriousness. Then his eyes narrowed.

"I do not require your assistance."

I should be a psychic. My stranger was never going to allow me to aid him unless he was literally dying. I nearly threw up my hands and pronounced myself finished. Something in the back of my mind curbed that thought process a bit. Instead of becoming angry and frustrated, I simply treated him in the manner I knew best: as one of my colts.

"I have invested far too much time and effort into your recovery for you to refuse my help. You've once already reaped the benefits of not listening to me; you want to tempt fate again?"

I knew I was asking a great deal from this proud man, but soon I would ask even more; this was only the first step. I watched his face for some sign that he had understood, that he registered what I was saying; there was nothing. His facial expressions until then had been barely visible, but I could point them out. Now, however, he had closed off.

A tense few moments passed before my stranger exhaled deeply, and nodded once. Taking that as a concession, I carefully spooned out some of the broth, and put it to his lips.

* * *

As I have said, it has been over a week since that incident. My stranger and I worked around his inability to feed himself for only a day; after that, he was on his own. Of course, I was quite pleased with this course of events as it left me with more time to train.

At least, that is what I tell myself.

He has said nothing else in the time we have spent together, preferring to use a glance or a nod to communicate. He'd stripped down his handgun after the second day, cleaning it with the few supplies I used to keep my own rifle in shape, and the tedious action seemed to settle him somewhat. This seeming need for routine was a small similarity between us that at first caused me some fraction of concern; I didn't want to consider us as having anything remotely in common.

And then there was his absence from nearly everything but the dinner table. He'd taken to sleeping, and perhaps hiding away in, the spare downstairs bedroom. Of course, I was more than happy to have him off my couch, but his move from one borrowed space to another made the situation seem more…permanent. Not at all what I want, of course. I tell myself constantly I want him shooed from my presence, and yet I find simply having someone else in my empty home gives me a sense of calm. It is rather irksome.

As for the rest of my stranger, the bandages have wheedled down to simple protective coverings for his stitches. I know he will be well enough to leave in the upcoming week – as long as he takes care and does not push his body too hard – and I have no doubt as soon as he is able, he will take flight. I will be able to focus solely on my horses and my quite life, without some stranger taking up room in both my home and my mind. My life will return to normal, and I will have my peace of mind. I will be alone.

The loneliness-that-is-not-loneliness will once more have free reign of my life.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: I _hate_ this chapter. It took forever to write, and I still do not think it works. But I needed this interlude, as well as the set up. Sorry to all those who wanted to see Vincent. He will be making a rather large appearance in the next chapter, so don't get out the pitchforks and torches just yet. Feel free to rip into this chapter in your reviews, as God knows I have it coming.

* * *

Chapter Nine

* * *

Guilt booted me from the house and into the barn. I had not necessarily neglected the horses, but I had not given them the time they deserved.

The hint of winter that had tinted the air for so long was now more a notice of arrival. A fine mist hugged the ground, coating everything in dampness. I could see the last spider-webs of the year in perfect detail as they hung like gossamer on the tall grass, each strand jeweled with tiny diamonds of water. There was something about this air that brought life into my soul, and added a spring to my step, if you will forgive the cliché. For many, winter is seen as a time for slumber, for the world to slow and fall deep into rest.

Not so, in my mind. The heartiest of creatures brave this weather, using the lull to catch unwary prey. It is a time for trees to stand bare and defiant against the cold, their branches lifted to the heavens as if to say, 'Here we are. Do your worst.'

It is no secret why I love winter.

Breathing in the moist air, I smiled for the first time in what seemed an eternity. But in less than a month, the snows would come, if they were not on their way already, and I would be shipping the young colts back home; if there was anything I found disagreeable about winter, it was that. I would greatly miss their bright eyes and unruly attitudes, their curiosity and uncertainty, but most of all I would miss their company. The barn would be terribly quiet without them, although I am certain my older horses would not mind a bit of silence for a change.

Shaking my head at such disheartening thoughts, and watching as my breath plumed out in front of me, I ambled into the barn to be greeted with the traditional wall kicks and neighs. This, too, brought a small smile to my lips. Soon, I found myself in the rhythm I had sorely missed: measure the oats, feed the children, turn out the herd, fill water buckets, clean stalls.

I was working myself to a sweat on the stalls; I cleaned them every day of the week, but now I wanted to strip them. It takes the entire body to completely strip a stall bare, and I needed the feeling that comes from pushing a body's stamina. Already, my heavy coat hung just outside the tack room, and I was quite sure I would be peeling out of my flannel shirt at any time. My stallion remained inside, as I had planned to ride even in this weather; to be fair, perhaps I kept him for company as well.

Anyone who has ever owned a horse will tell you they have spoken to the animal on more than one occasion. I found it an excellent way to work out a problem without needing the presence of an actual human. Besides, a horse will never argue with you, at least not verbally.

My mind was blessedly clear, leaving it free to wander without traipsing around subjects best left alone. The stranger in my home faded away, until thoughts of him were bare shadows in my head. It was wondrous to feel so free after a week of confinement. Granted, I had brought said confinement on myself, but that is beside the point.

My guest was moving around now on his own, without repeating the disastrous events from his third night. His clothing, which had been in complete disrepair when I first found him, was replaced with well-worn jeans and flannel, most of it too large for his thin frame; out of the pure kindness of my heart, I had lent him the contents of a single cardboard box once stuffed in the back of an overflowing closet. I was grateful that he had not asked questions nor made any comment.

Though I should have expected as much, as he had spoken no more than a handful of words since his arrival.

He was able to care for himself, which includes eating and drinking, and using the restroom; both of us were very pleased by the latter. There was a rather business-like manner in the way we interacted. I continued to care for his wounds, and he in turn allowed me that small amount of invasion into his privacy. For his part, he kept to himself until the end of a meal, upon which he would wash the dishes. This token of goodwill, I must admit, floored me the first time it happened. After the second day, however, it had become a normal occurrence.

Normal. I caught myself thinking back on the stranger, precisely where I had told my mind not to stray. It all led back to the idea of 'normalcy', and what such an idea meant for me now. To be sure, I wanted this man gone from my life, but his leaving would vacate a void I never knew needed filling. I was vexed by my own indecision, by the near-constant pressure to either pack up and leave, or to tough it out on my own again.

I had to laugh at myself. _Am I ever going to have peace in my own head?_ Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I exchanged a look with my stallion, who had been privy to my moment of peculiarity. He appeared to think I was being a tad silly, as he exhaled deeply and then buried his nose into the alfalfa hay. Chuckling again, I nodded in his direction.

"I concur."

The next few hours went by slowly. The troublesome little thoughts that had plagued me were forgotten in the moment. I had, indeed, peeled off the flannel shirt, and though it was near freezing outside, I was sweating heavily. My body was building up the steady ache that comes with hard labor, and I relished it. Manual work clears the mind and focuses the attention; I was in great need of both.

As I hefted one of the muck buckets to my hip, a sudden clamor rang through the building. My stallion halted his munching to swivel around, his pert ears immediately placed the source. At first, I had been caught off-guard, but the synthesized tones told me there could be only one culprit: my mobile phone. Perplexed, I let the bucket fall back to the ground with a heavy _thump_ and made my way to the discarded coat. It took a few moments of rummaging before I successfully located the offending piece of technology.

Now would perhaps be a good time to mention that I have never been fond of electronics.

Tapping the screen to unlock it, I could not help but sigh when I saw the number. Steeling myself – and putting on my best smile – I clicked 'send'.

"FT Farms. Aisha speaking."

The voice that came through the other end was as it had always been: smooth, cultured, and slick. It belonged to someone who kept my barn full, but not someone I would ever have associated with in the outside world; the man may have been a snake, but he was a well-connected snake.

"Ah, Aisha. It is wonderful to speak with you again. How have you been?"

Forcing the smile to remain on my face, I gave him what he wanted. "I am fantastic, Mr. Raughsberg. Just thinking about you and the girls, actually. Will they be coming up this year?"

There was a pregnant silence that went on far longer than I would have liked. _He is hiding something._ I could almost hear his mind churning through possible answers. _I've thrown him off. What does he want?_ As my mouth opened to repeat my sentiments, the snake cleared his throat. It was then that I _knew_ something was wrong.

"Ah, yes, the girls. I'm afraid they're not going to make it this year. We will be moving the horses a bit early, and they will not be home from school. Surely you understand?"

He was not asking me about his daughters; he was telling me the horses would be leaving sooner than expected. Inwardly, I cringed; there were only a handful of reasons why a client would pull their training string before the agreed date. Wiping the sweat from my cheeks to buy myself a bit of time, I ran the list of maybes and what-ifs through my mind, crossing off those I knew to be impossible, and flagging those I had a hunch on.

Armed with a better idea of the situation, I smiled sweetly into the phone once more. "Oh, I understand, Mr. Raughsberg. I am sorry to hear it. They are quite the pair."

I paused for a heartbeat. _Alright, I will play along._ "And you mentioned retrieving the horses ahead of schedule. Did I hear correctly?"

To his credit, he answered the inquiry directly, although it was not difficult to hear the waver in his voice, the slight tremor which belied his smooth words.

"Always direct, Aisha. Yes, we are going to be moving the horses sooner than expected. There has been a change in plans for our upcoming season, and I need _your_ string back in _our_ barn. I would have my man drive to you, but I am afraid he has a tight schedule around here. To drive out to the farm and then come home would undoubtedly take up a great deal more time than he has. We've nearly a full race schedule at the moment, and my only other capable driver is in the hospital. Bad turn on a three year old."

My patron was indeed pouring on the charm. _Slick, very slick. _But there was something profoundly _wrong_ with his act; I could not put my finger on what it was, exactly, but it was there nonetheless, gnawing at the back of my mind. I sighed heavily when I realized part of what he wanted. _He is going to ask me to haul ten hours to Cairns. _This man knew I could not be gone from the farm for an entire day, but he was going to ask it of me anyway. It was not the first time he had requested something ridiculous of me, but on those occasions, I had never felt truly reluctant to consent.

Realizing suddenly that I had not commented on his woeful tale, I cleared my throat and smiled once more. "That _does_ sound terrible, Mr. Raughsberg. Is there anything I can do to help?"

A great exhalation was heard from the other end; the snake had been holding out for my question. Glib as always, he jumped right in.

"I was in the hopes that you could perhaps get them to Cairns, if that is at all possible. I know you don't like to be away from the horses for extended periods of time, but at the moment, I cannot see another way. Besides, they would be on their way home before the nasty weather hits."

_Is this man serious? The heavy snows aren't due for at least another month. _I had to grind my teeth to keep from calling him out on his request; I did not need my largest societal 'in' to pull out at this stage. The same sense of _wrongness _hit me again. I knew there was more to this story, but the snake was not going to give it up.

The warmth I had generated by stripping the stalls was fast leaving me, and I shivered slightly in the cold, damp air. Using the opportunity to gain a bit of time, I crossed my free arm over my chest and looked to the roof in silent prayer. When no help was forthcoming, I turned back to the mess at hand.

"Mr. Raughsberg, I know you understand just how difficult it is going to be for me to leave the farm unattended. I will need to leave the horses out on their own, which means any number of things could happen. And the nearest vet – other than myself – is in Cairns. If something truly horrible happened I-"

My patron cut me off with a well-placed 'ahem'. "I understand whole-heartedly how you feel. I would suffer the same were I in your shoes. But come now, nothing will happen to your herd…" He always calls it that when his horses are not included. "…and if it does, then I will be most willing to aid in their recovery. Certainly, you must worry about them; after all, isn't that one of the qualities you are known for?"

My head was beginning to throb. I had always hated talking to this man, and I don't think I will ever _not_ hate talking to him. Closing my eyes, and biting back a rather damning remark, I did the one thing I hate most in this world: I caved.

"Alright, Mr. Raughsberg. I suppose, since you are in such dire straits, I can haul out the four to Cairns. It would be my pleasure. But I _would_ ask that you cover my expenses for the trip."

If there is one thing common to all rich men like Mr. Raughsberg, it is this: they hate to part with their money if there is an alternative present. I had never before asked him to pay for my operating costs unless it was specifically stated in our contract; I was praying he would decline, proving my nagging worry unfounded.

"Keep a total of your expenses for the trip and send them to my secretary. I will gladly take care of it. As for the timetable, a fax should be sent to you soon with all of the available information. I do believe, however, that the horses are to be moved on the twelfth."

I could not help the expression painted on my face; thank God the snake was not around to see it. He actually agreed to paying me, without negotiation. I was beyond worrying now; I was supremely suspicious. Of all the things that had failed in my life, my intuition was not among them. I had relied on it time and time again, with consistent results. However, intuitive though I may be, there was nothing for me to found my suspicions on. Frustrated with this abrupt and dismal intrusion to my otherwise wonderful day, I opened my mouth to reply, then snapped it shut as a stray thought struck me. _Today is the _ninth_. What the hell is going on?_

Having already conceded to his demands, I had nothing left to bargain with. Plastering a smile on my lips, I grated out, "Very well, Mr. Raughsberg. You will have your horses in three days."

I preempted any other comments he had with one sure stroke. "And if that is all, I should be getting back to other matters. As always, it has been a _delight_ speaking with you. Say hello to the girls for me."

His amiable response was cut short as I dropped the phone from my ear and pressed 'end'. The little bubble of happiness I built around myself had silently burst, shunting me back into reality with a gleeful kick. Gone was the warmth I had gained from cleaning the stalls, gone was the clarity of mind I had savored. My head was fighting itself once more as I stood shivering next to my stallion's stall.

_Is he setting me up for something? Has he decided to pull out of our contract? What if someone is poisoning my reputation on the circuit? What if that someone wanted the farm to go under? What if…?_

With a final roll of my eyes and a very exasperated sigh, I heaved myself off the wall. _Get a leash on those thoughts, Aisha. _While my client's actions were far from his normal pattern, I decided to tell myself they did not warrant such suspicion and wariness. I was being an idiot, a foolish woman who had much better things to do than worry about the nature of one silver-tongued man. Snatching up my flannel shirt and coat, I donned both to keep out the damp, chill air. My phone went into an internal pocket of my coat, where it was zipped in to be forgotten about.

Brushing back a few stray strands of my rather unruly locks, I huffed to myself. _Look at the state you have gotten yourself in. Lot of good it has done you. Oh, sure, there is a obscenely good looking man in your house - who never speaks and who carts around that handgun of his as though it was a safety blanket – but that is no reason to be so off your game. And Raughsberg? He is not worth the time you are giving him. So he holds most of the influence on the circuit, and keeps your barn full, but he is just one man. Get. A. Grip. _

I continued to berate myself as I unlocked my stallion's stall, slipping in and closing it half-way. His liquid brown eyes fell on me and I was immediately hit with the intelligence of the animal. He appeared to understand everything that had happened, and now he was telling me what a loon I had become. I had to smile at his expression, knowing full well he was reading me better than any human ever had. With a shake of his head he turned back to his hay, ripping out a large chunk and chewing it loudly. I could not help but to admire this horse, as his sheer presence soothed my heart and mind. My hands found his sleek red coat, brushing away what little dust they found. He seemed to be pleased by my actions, cocking one back leg and sighing deeply.

After a long while, I noticed he was asleep, his head drooping lower and lower. A short laugh escaped me as I realized I had calmed down as well, my mind settled and not focused on any one thing in particular. With a last soft pat on his hip, I excused myself from his stall. Relaxed as I was, the site of my yet-to-be-finished stalls didn't hit me with the same exasperation. Satisfied with the thought that I would be through with them in perhaps less than an hour, I bent down to gather up my dropped muck bucket. As I hoisted it to my hip, the crunching sound of tires on gravel caught my attention. Once again, I let the bucket fall from my hands.

_No one_ visits me. I have no friends. I have no relatives. Only when I have called for a veterinarian or a delivery does a vehicle other than my own come up my driveway. My curiousness was tinged with caution, as I recalled the last persons to pay me a visit. I had nothing on me other than my knife, and that might be a bit much, seeing as how I did not know who was calling. Approaching the open bay doors, I snared a riding crop thoughtlessly left on a bale of hay. _For once my laziness accounts for something good._ Holding it to my side, and gathering my nerve, I exited the barn to greet my guests.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Here is where the new rating comes in. LARGE NOTE: Aisha's last name has been changed from the previous edit. So, on with the show.

* * *

Chapter Ten

* * *

From the barn entrance, I could see only the front of a black vehicle, most likely a truck. Its grill was flashy chrome, and curving over both the grill and the headlights was a chrome bumper bar. In other words, this was not a truck for hard use; it was for showing off.

And I knew _exactly_ who it belonged to.

Anger - no, _loathing_ – woke deep within my body, happy to have a reason to rear up once more. I could hear the sounds of boots on gravel as I came closer to the house, and then the tell-tale _thud_ as someone began up the stairs to my front door. Rounding the corner, I saw not one, but two trucks, both outfitted in much the same way. And standing next to said vehicles were three men.

To an untrained eye, they appeared quite formidable: tall, broad and well built, with short haircuts reminiscent of the military. Each had the same cocky smirk plastered over their faces, a ploy to create fear in their intended targets. But I knew them for what they were: cowards. Though all three looked to be in peak physical condition, I knew none of them could run more than a few hundred yards before their lungs forced them to halt. Their muscles were no more than a by-product of weight lifting and protein bulking, not sculpted from any real, useful exercise. And that smirk? I was certain none of these men had ever been in a true fight before, or at least not a fair one, so their cockiness was stemming more from a false sense of invincibility than any true confidence.

The whole lot of them turned to leer at me when they finally noticed my arrival. My eyes did not linger on them, however. I was looking for the fourth, the man who had gone up the stairs. I found him staring back at me from the porch, a dark smile on his lips.

Unlike the rest, I knew this man could back up most of what he said…most, but not all.

I had positioned myself just left of center to all of them, not quite in between the four, but close enough so that I could keep an eye on the whole group. I mortared a pleasant smile on my face as the lone man stepped heavily down my stairs, his grin growing wide as he approached. In response, I cocked out my hip and planted a fist on it, while my other hand kept the crop just to my side. He came to a halt a yard or two away; smart man, perhaps he remembered what happened the last time…

"Hello, Mrs. Harkess. It has been some time since we last spoke. How have you been?"

His voice was just as deep and rich as before, with the same undercurrent of violence just waiting to be released. I _hate_ men like this, more so than the snakes I usually deal with in my business. So, with a fake, sweet smile, I answered him.

"I've been _quite_ well, Donovan. You seem in good health, as well. So do your men. I see that Lyle's lip has fully healed…"

I did not need to look over at the three men to know Lyle was staring me down, unconsciously biting his lower lip, the same one I had split open in our last meeting. The man named Donovan smirk widened at my words, obviously enjoying our exchange. He placed one hand on his hip while the other went to his face, rubbing his non-existent stubble; he was giving me the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the 9mm kept in his shoulder holster. I filed it away, confirming what I had originally thought when he first came down the stairs.

If you are not accustomed to concealing a weapon, chances are you're going to mimic what you see; this never works.

He was unused to wearing the pistol in its current position, so I assumed he normally wore it on his hip. A just theory, I suppose, but the fact that he – and the rest of his men – were wearing handguns at all was worrisome. On their last visit, they had resorted to nothing more than physical intimidation; it appeared they had now decided to ramp up the game. It was rather flattering, actually.

Donovan interrupted my train of thought with a chuckle. "Oh, God. You are never going to let him live that down, are you? It's not like he _meant _anything he said before. Just a bit of joshing is all."

I quirked an eyebrow. "Joshing, hmm? I suppose. But now he knows better than to _josh_ someone inches from their face."

Once again, I did not need to look at Lyle to know he was fuming. _Good, let him make another mistake._ I continued to smile at Donovan as his grin faltered. Dropping his hand to his waist, the man stared at me long and hard. Eventually, he broke the edgy silence with a quiet voice.

"You know why we are here, Mrs. Harkess. It has been the same for the past year. We were…nice…on our last visit, but the situation has changed."

I finally lost the smile. _The situation has changed? _Rather than show my concern, I tapped the whip on my thigh, helping out those who had not noticed it before. All three of Donovan's men narrowed their eyes, and all three put a hand to their waist; a bit too jumpy for my taste. I needed them to remain cool, but there was a nagging suspicion in the back of my head telling me this 'situation' was going to spiral out of control fast.

"Changed? And how so?"

I was playing him for time until I could figure out how to get out of this mess. And that was when I realized my visitors did not know about the stranger in my house. Should any one of them make it inside, they would be in for a rude surprise. For a split second, the thought heartened me, but I quickly concluded that my stranger would not hold back.

Turning my attention back to the man in front of me, I caught the look of smug superiority as it flashed over his face. I could not help but to arch an eyebrow at this response, and my mind worked furiously to decipher the myriad of body cues each man was giving off.

"That's not something you need concern yourself with. Just know that your case is being handled now by someone who understands a bit better how things work."

His smile grew cruel. "And he has given us a little more leeway, if you take my meaning."

_Damn, damn, damn. _Not_ what I wanted to hear._ Again, my crop tapped my leg as I jerked around the boys a bit more. Tilting my head as though thinking over his words – and using it as a fair imitation of being nervous – I had the chance to dart my eyes to the house. _Good, he isn't watching._ The last thing I needed was for one of the men to notice I had a guest.

I set my eyes back on Donovan, a smile curling my lips as I spoke. "Oh, I understand better than you think. You're telling me your owner gave his bitches more leash, correct?"

And that was all it took for Lyle to break his silence.

"Fuck, Donovan, let's just deal with the fucking whore and get outta here. It's not like she's not gonna get what's coming to her anyway."

Donovan cut the man a sharp look, his eyes hard. That, in and of itself, told me Lyle had spoken more than he should have. "Keep your trap shut, Lyle, or I will shut it for you."

Lyle fumed for a moment longer, clearly debating between his desire to 'deal with' me, and the threat his boss had just made. Finally, he sneered at me and leaned back against one of the trucks with a huff. Donovan brought his attention back to me, his smile gone and a steely look in his blue eyes.

"One more time, Mrs. Harkess. You already know the terms, so I won't go over them again. We have the papers in the front seat. And you will have a few days to get everything arranged. So, your choice: sell or be forced out."

I was no more going to sell my farm than I was going to kiss Lyle, and Donovan knew it. His face plainly stated that he expected nothing more, and for a moment – only a moment – I saw in his eyes pity. Rubbing his forehead with a large hand, he sighed deeply.

"You are not going to do it, are you Aisha?"

Movement in my peripheral vision told me the other men had already begun to move up, though they had not drawn their guns. _Keep being dumb, guys. Please, don't try to play this right…_

"No, Donovan. And you know why." My voice was steady and clear; my heart was in my throat, my stomach in my toes.

No matter what anyone ever tells you, time does _not_ slow down in a situation like this. There is no moment of perfect clarity, or a dream sequence, or any other absurd trick movies and books throw out as truth. There is only you and the opposition, and a precious few seconds to decide what you are going to do and what they are going to do and how the whole thing is going to play out. There is no beauty in it, either. No fancy moves or magic words to make your hits land harder. Just your body and instinct; there is no 'smart' in a fight like this. Everything happens too fast for your brain to comprehend.

In the span of a heartbeat, two men had rounded one of the trucks, closing the distance by half before Donovan could utter a response.

I waited, holding my body in check until they were an arm's length away; then it was _time._ As the first reached me – James something or other – I lashed out with the crop, catching him across the face and splitting open the soft skin of his cheek. His head whipped back, halting him for a moment and giving me more room. Lyle grinned with uncontained glee at the situation, his large hands grabbing for my t-shirt. I let him take hold of the fabric before I turned my whip on his face as well. He had jerked me bodily around, thinking he was in control; I followed the movement through to its peak, and then I felt the crop connect with flesh. Blood spattered over my shirt as his lip was torn open…again.

His hand remained locked onto my shirt, but he was off balance. I capitalized on the situation by making an opening for myself. With a shove of my hips, I twisted our momentum until he could no longer remain upright. Like all heavily built, slow bodies, Lyle fell without a chance to save himself. I rode him to the ground, landing on his chest. With the wind knocked from him, he would be out of the fight for a few seconds: that was all I would need.

I rolled off of him and immediately found my footing. Good thing, because the third man was on top of me; he had finally made it to the fight. _Getting slow, Aisha._ He barreled into me like a freight train, catching me around the waist and hoisting me off my feet. I had no idea what he hoped to accomplish by doing this, but I _did _know what _I_ was going to do with it. I wrapped both of my legs around his waist, and as he looked up, I slammed my forehead into the bridge of his nose.

Many things happen when one's nose is broken: one, the eyes begin to water uncontrollably; two, the brain sends pain signals to the rest of the body, demanding it to take care of the situation; three, blood gets everywhere. Oddly enough, it is the sight of blood that halts most people. The man I was clinging to snapped his head back from the impact, staggering from the uneven weight he was carrying. I helped this along by throwing my body forward, and then allowing gravity to work its magic.

We landed with a resounding _thud_, and I knew he had to be in pain, not only from our combined weights, but because he had just fallen onto hard gravel. Not wanting to lose momentum, I rolled forward, once again finding my footing and popping up into a kneeling position. Both James and Donovan had surprised looks, however, when they saw what was in my hand.

As the last man and I had fallen to the earth, I had liberated his pistol. Now, the stout .40 was leveled steadily at Donovan's head. The weight told me it was fully loaded, and I had checked the slide as I rolled to my knee; there was already a round in the chamber.

Lyle, cursing, struggled to stand again, as did the third man – Kent? – but they were both more worried about their own bodies than doing what they should have: drawing their guns on me from the ground. James stood dumbfounded a few feet away, and I could see him moving to his holstered weapon from the corner of my eye. Without taking my gaze from Donovan, I growled to James.

"Don't even _think_ about drawing that gun. Your boss' brain will be out the back of his head before you even clear that thing. _Do you understand me_?"

To his credit, James dropped his hand away from the holster. Donovan, however, had managed to at least draw his gun during the fight, but it rested at his side; apparently he had not brought it into play quick enough. He smiled tightly at me, the gun tapping his leg much in the same way the crop had slapped my thigh. There was a silence in the air so tense it could have crushed a mountain to powder.

Donovan suddenly, and slowly, exhaled. "Just as spectacular as always, Mrs. Harkess. Now, what do you propose we do about this situation?"

I did _not_ like his tone, but I really disliked what he had said. The man was trying to play me - _again – _even though I had a gun pointed at his face. He was afraid, sure, but not enough so that I could force him into anything. The gun was still level in my hand, and as I stared past it at the bastard who had tried to harm me time after time, I could not help but to think that maybe, just maybe, if I pulled the trigger, my problems would be over. The voices that had so long haunted me rose up again, urging me to take another life.

I chained them back down with reluctance.

And so I stood, slowly, and jerking my chin to the trucks, I smiled. "Well, Donovan, I suggest you leave your weapon here. As a gesture of good faith, you see. And then you should take your men and have them seen to. They don't look very well…"

I heard Lyle spit behind me, clearing the blood from his mouth. Donovan cracked a half grin, shaking his head and holding up his hand to warn off the other men. Meeting my gaze, he sighed deeply before tossing the gun to my feet.

I did not bend down to take it.

Carefully, I stepped to the side, encouraging the man to move to the trucks, which he did. Both of his hands were up now, and he had the same half-grin on his lips. He gestured to the other men, motioning them to the vehicles as well. Lyle threw me what he hoped to be a threatening glare, but it looked rather silly with a swelling lip. James helped Kent up as the latter held his hand to his nose, attempting to stem the flow of blood. When all three were well within my sight, I decided to add one more thing.

"And the rest of you should lose your weapons. _All_ of you."

As you can imagine, none of them wanted to comply, but a single look from Donovan cut off any protest. Each man slowly withdrew his handgun from his shoulder holster, then pitched it to me. The sound of a hand slapping the hood of one of the trucks caught my ears before I heard Lyle pipe up.

"Fucking bitch. Wait until I've my hands on you. Oh, the fun we'll have, you an' me…"

Lyle's rant was immediately silenced by a blow to his already injured lip. Donovan scowled at him before turning his eyes to me. "He _is_ right about one thing, Mrs. Harkess. We _will_ have fun. All of us."

And with that pearl of wisdom, he got into one of the trucks, the rest of his men following suit. Both vehicles backed up, and then flung gravel back to me as they peeled out down the driveway. I waited until they disappeared around a bend in the road before I bent to gather up the discarded guns. I hooked a finger through their trigger guards after I put them on safety, and then I hauled my tired body up the porch stairs. My hands were shaking, the adrenaline leaving me quickly. I made it almost to the last step before I had to lean over the railing and give up everything I had for breakfast. _Oh, God, don't let it be starting again…_


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: I miss you, MusicalSoul.

* * *

Chapter Eleven

* * *

Opening a door with two handfuls of guns is an interesting trick, one I am clearly not proficient with. My front entrance came swinging open with a shove from my shoulder, causing me to lurch forward into the house. Grateful to just be inside, I quickly turned around and struggled with the lock. It was the first time in a long time I had felt compelled to bar someone from my home, perhaps irrationally so in this case. _They are gone, aren't they? And I have no reason to believe they will be back anytime soon, right?_ As the click of the lock hit my ears, I sagged against the door-frame, breathing deeply and closing my eyes, trying to wipe away the image of yet another person sighted down the barrel of gun, a gun held in _my_ hands.

Pulling my mind back together, I gave one last long, low exhalation and shoved off the door, my eyes still half-closed, perhaps in an attempt to keep myself in a state of semi-consciousness. It was when I was in mid-turn that my shoulder impacted with something, and my eyes flew open. _What the…?_

Standing what must have been directly behind me was my stranger, his body unmoving even though I had stumbled into him. I knew that my eyes were wide with shock, and my tired body was already processing this new occurrence as a threat, a response I had to quash quickly. Fumbling with both the guns in my hands and my words, I teetered back a step to put some space between us. Sure, I had been around this man for almost two weeks - hell, I had seen him naked on more than one occasion - but there was something drastically different about our past interactions and this one now. His red eyes knifed into me with the same intensity as our first meeting, but now his body could back up his intimidating gaze.

This was a part of him I had never wanted to see, a part that I thought would remain hidden until he could leave. It wasn't only my eyes, but the total sum of my senses that were being assaulted by something uncomfortable and all too familiar. He was not angry, per se; he was tense, his body reacting much in the same way mine did to the attack. But where I had fought to only gain control of the situation, I knew he would have fought to end it. Period.

And that is the thought that caused my mouth to open and say something stupid.

"Dinner'll have to wait. I'm going to be late tonight."

_What the hell are you babbling about, Aisha? _My mouth clamped closed when he narrowed his eyes at my words. He said nothing for a heartbeat or two, choosing instead to pin me under his glare. When I began to think I could just saunter around him and skip out on any more 'conversation', my stranger broke his silence.

"Who were those men?"

He managed to say it with utter uncaring in his voice, but the cold edge to the way he said 'men' took me back somewhat. It occurred to me that my guest was not worried about _my_ safety; on the contrary, he was curious to know if he would be embroiled in an affair that was not his own. A fair enough mentality, in his state, but not one that I appreciated. This in mind, I was going to wave him off when I was reminded of the two guns I held in both hands. Frustrated and tired and sore, I fell back onto my standard way of dealing with things like this.

"Untrained pups. Nothing to worry about. They've been scolded, and I'm sure they're running back to cry to their owner."

Not for one second did _I_ believe _he_ would believe it, but I was going to forge ahead regardless. Flashing my stranger a bright smile with energy I didn't have, I stepped around him and started up the stairs.

When my boot made contact with the first step, my entire body shrieked out an alarm.

Too late, as I realized his hand had a vise-like grip on my wrist. Normally, I would have been shocked, or mortified, or _something_ other than numb, but I was too tired, too emotionally frazzled to put on a convincing reaction. I could only hope he would give up if I didn't offer any openings.

"Release me. _Please_."

It took a great amount of effort to force the word past my teeth. 'Please' was something I reserved for pleasant situations, ones where some sort of decorum is to be followed. But here, in this moment, it acted more of warning than a humble request. Be that as it may, however, my stranger did not uncurl his long fingers from my wrist. Quickly reaching my limit to patience – I was still nauseated from my earlier exploits, and I was fast becoming annoyed at the unwanted touch of someone – I took a step back down the stairs, leaving me eye level to the man. I knew my appearance was not the cool, in-control façade I hoped to have schooled myself to wear, but for the moment I really didn't care. I could hear the rushing sound of those hideous voices as they clamored from the back of my mind, urging more violence. Forcibly, I shoved them down.

Matching my gaze to his was not as hard as I thought it would be - though I suppose when you are tired and angry and frustrated and plain _pissed_, you can do a lot of things you never thought possible - but before I could open my mouth to repeat myself, my stranger's deep tenor cut through the tense quiet.

"You did not answer the question. They came armed and prepared for an altercation. Is this –"

"There is nothing more you need to know. So, I will ask you again: release me." I had cut him off in mid-sentence, which surprised the both of us. His eyes did not waver, but I was certain he did not take kindly to being interrupted. As for me – other than feeling slightly satisfied for my action – I had not realized my hands were balled into fists, and it was the steady, aching pressure of metal-on-skin that brought it to my attention. Taking the chance my rudeness afforded me, I took another step up the stairs, tugging my hand away from his.

He did not budge.

In fact, it appeared he was doubly set on holding me where I was until he got his answers, a mindset that ruffled me the wrong way all the more. Nothing happened, however, until he placed a foot on the stairs, intent on following me if he had to. I attempted to wrench my wrist away from him, which spurred my stranger into hauling me back down the stairs towards him.

Now, the situation was moving out of my control, as was my unbound hand. It whipped around, simultaneously dropping one of the handguns and flipping its partner around to grasp it by the grip. By the time my body impacted his, I had the weapon's muzzle firmly ensconced underneath his jaw.

No one moved.

We were not panting; out breathing was calm and steady, as though we were sitting at dinner or falling to sleep. My stranger's eyes were flat, cold, almost as though I had insulted him yet again. My own, I knew, were just as wintery, but rather than flat, they would be burning with a frosty need for more blood. Being a step higher, I was level with him, our faces barely an inch apart; it was only because I was so close that I witnessed the fleeting shift of his pupils as they dilated wide, sucking in more light.

By God, I _wanted_ to pull that trigger. In that second, I craved nothing more than to allow the voices full reign, to give over to them completely.

But I was also _afraid. _I was terrified of the thing I had found in front of me, the thing that I had dreamed of for years. I had hunted them as they had hunted us, yet I am willing to bet my bones they never once had nightmares about _me_. Those eyes, those red, infuriating eyes that would radiate from the darkness; I saw them again, only now they were in my home, their owner touching me, breathing against my skin. I felt my finger tighten, taking away the slack in the trigger. It could be over so soon; with a loud _pop_ and a spray of crimson, it could all end.

The voices grew to a roar, competing with the fear as it screamed to run. I wanted to shut my eyes and make it all go away, but I could not tear my sight from my stranger's gaze; I felt as though I would soon crawl out of my own skin from the noise and fear and bloodlust. The gun was steady even when the rest of me was not, the slight tremors racing through my body not coming close to my hand. I could feel his pulse as it radiated down the barrel and into my fingers, a strong beat, but a rhythm that would take little effort to silence. It would be so easy, so simple: finish a minute action and rid myself of a nuisance. It would be so easy…

"I am not them."

The statement rocked me back into reality, or some form thereof. Or perhaps it wasn't the statement, as I am not certain I _heard_ what he said; it was the movement of his jaw as it worked against the barrel that snapped me from my bout with crazy. A sudden rush of air filled my lungs, and all at once the gravity of the situation slammed into me. The handgun disappeared from my view as it fell from my hand, clattering down the steps before coming to rest on the flagstone of my entryway. I could not answer him, I could not form the words to even begin speech. This was a man I had a duty to, whether I wanted it or not. I had cared for him, tended to him, nourished him, and with those actions came a form of responsibility; I was supposed to _help_ him, but for a soul-damning heartbeat, I had wanted to execute him. I felt my eyes grow wide at this thought, and dropping the remaining guns, I tore my wrist free of his grip: this time, he did not stop me.

_Living human, soft skin, living, live flesh against metal, you almost…you almost…_

The words were running on loop through my mind as I pitched up the stairs, scrambling to get away from him, or the situation, or myself. There were no tears in my eyes, but I could not see; the entire world was a blur, as though I was looking through ancient glass. Frantically, I faltered up the remaining steps and into the second floor hall. Tripping over myself, I lurched to through my bedroom door, slamming it behind me.

_Body against body, flesh on steel, thin skin, precious blood, you almost…_

I slid down the aged oak door, unable to breathe. _No. No, you didn't. You took control. You are fine._ No matter what I muttered to myself, the litany would not stop. I felt soiled in my own skin, like my sins were bubbling up from my soul and using my pores to escape. I choked down a cry as I began to rip at my clothing, desperately wanting to be rid of them, thinking perhaps if I could only strip their filth from me then I would no longer feel so tainted. But even as my flannel shirt rent open, I knew it wouldn't make me clean.

Floundering to all fours, I scrabbled into the bathroom. I did not feel then the ache that would come later from the bruises I received from the hard stone floor, or the sharp pain from my knee impacting the slight lip of the shower. All I desired was the water that came pelting over me moments later. I didn't know which knob I had turned to fulfill said desire, nor did I care about the temperature of the water as it quickly soaked through my shirt, jeans, and boots, and plastered my hair against my head.

The water was freezing, I would later recall, but it was perfect. I was on my knees, one hand on the faucet while the other braced against the wall. I still could not breathe, my lungs contracting and filling without exchanging much air. My forehead rested on the cold stone wall as well, and it rocked forward and back in time with the words bombarding my brain.

But as the water pounded into me, slowly I took in less ragged gulps, and my rocking eventually ceased. Shaking from the cold and shock and God-knows-what-else, I slumped to the floor, not of the mind to turn off the water, although I am not sure I could have if I wanted to. The whispers and shouts of the voices who had clamored for more were subsiding, fading back into the parts of me I had hoped to keep locked away for eternity.

The only voice that remained was my own as I chanted a single phrase over and over and over…

"Forgive me…forgive me…forgive me…forgive me…"


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Short one again, sorry. I needed to get this one out before I really dove into the marathon that is Chapter 13. No Vincent either; well, maybe if you squint.

And before you lynch me for not having Mr. Valentine in yet another chapter, let me give you a hint as to his next appearance: plaid and a 'Kiss the Chef' apron. Just a heads up.

* * *

Chapter Twelve

* * *

A distant, throbbing ache prodded at my consciousness. In response, my body shifted positions on the hard tile, prompting the once minor inconvenience to blossom into immediate pain. The shock of it caused my breath to hitch, which in turn roused me from the nothingness I had been so happy to linger in. Time had little meaning as I wandered towards awareness, desperately wishing all the while that I could plunge back into a state of inky blackness.

Very soon after I stumbled from the blessed emptiness – I had not, thank Providence, dreamt - my mind decided it was time to wake. I found that it took great effort to open my eyes, and when they did finally crack, I felt as though they were being unreasonable as they despondently ripped apart. With such a small task triumphantly complete, I focused on, well, _focusing_. My eyesight was fuzzy, blurred, and in a monumental demonstration of willpower, I raised a stiff, bruised arm to swipe at my eyelids, jerkily rubbing them until they returned to a semi-normal state. That simple act of movement brought other pains to my attention, most of which seemed centered around the cramped, curled position I was lying in. Taking note, I decided that perhaps the best decision would be to move out of said position, and into one more conducive to regaining range of motion.

Haltingly, taking care not to rush, I unfurled my body enough to sit up. Thinking back, it's odd to me that only when I sat up did I realize the shower was no longer pelting me with a blast of frigid water. Regardless, I finally caught on to the fact, though that realization in and of itself caused more bafflement. _Did _I_ turn it off? When?_ Eventually settling on the convenient idea that I merely did not remember cutting off the water, I turned to more urgent matters, such as why my boots were off, as well as my socks and flannel shirt, and why I was wrapped in a pair of my downy white towels, both large enough to circle me twice. The tiny, black box of my ceramic heater was humming happily along next to me, valiantly backing the chill away. Confusion set in, rapidly followed by a moment of panic. _When did _this_ happen? Did I black out? _Sucking in an unsteady breath, I released it in a tension easing burst, finally finding some firm ground to think on.

Well, maybe _thinking_ is a mild overstatement.

The only real thought I could congeal into coherence dealt with the odd presence of my heater. The little warmth-bringer plugged along, seeming quite content with its job even though it was in the wrong place. On any normal day, it would be near the overstuffed chair in my bedroom, a place I dearly loved, as it welcomed long sitting spells spent reading or balancing bills, and the diminutive heater provided just the right amount of warmth for frosty toes. I don't know the reason as to why, but the out-of-place appliance struck me as the strangest part of my entire situation. I would never have put it there. _So who did?_ My sluggish brain refused to contemplate the problem any longer, and though I desperately wanted to solve the riddle of the mysteriously moving ceramic heater, my mind turned to what it perceived as larger problems, the most pressing of which apparently being the relationship between my back and the hard tile of my shower wall.

Heeding the constant nudging, I coached myself into a tenuous – and painful – crouch, gathering what energy I had and struggling to my feet, finding quite quickly that 'up' was not so friendly, and 'down' was a direction altogether too alluring. Swallowing, I closed my paradoxically dry eyes as the moment of vertigo passed, hoping I would not pitch forward as my legs wobbled on numb feet. I felt very much like a new-born colt, tottering on his own for the first time. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I smiled at the thought, but couldn't seem to make the expression manifest on my cold lips. Steeling my resolve, I took one hesitant, unsure step after another, until at last the room ceased leaning and the floor settled onto a flat plane. Grasping at the towels, I pulled them tightly to my skin, gripping them as a child does their safety blanket, forcing out the cold for a moment longer. The normal bronze nature of my skin was marred with an ashy tone, the colour blanched from being in too much cold and wet for too long. The ends of fingertips were pruned, while the rest of me felt too tight, as though there wasn't enough skin to stretch over my frame. My body dutifully carried me to my bed, where I unceremoniously flopped down, sinking into the relative warmth of my comforter with a groan. Some remote part of my mind registered that I was laying on a perfectly clean, dry, _fluffy_ surface, and that perhaps it would be better if I wasn't laying there still clad in soaked jeans and t-shirt. Thoughts once again trudging through a thick, growing darkness, I determinedly shucked out of my still-damp clothing, peeling them from my body and letting them fall to the hardwood with a dull _thwack_, not caring in the least what my floor had to say about such treatment.

Grateful beyond words to be out of the sodden confines of my clothes, I crawled under the layers of soft cotton and silk, my head coming to rest on the first pillow it found, and refusing to move from its obviously pre-destined spot. Within moments, sweet, blissful oblivion drifted over me, and for the second time that day, I willingly fell into nothingness.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: I feel as though I am a stranger to this site now. With hope, I will have snatches of time to begin writing again; this is, of course, if I do not have another relapse. As for this chapter, it is rough and the first for me in a while. Be as gentle or harsh with your reviews, as always; never hold back on anything you see needing work.

I am now finally past my horrible chapter in which I had an awkward character unable to deal with an awkward situation. Also, this is the prelude to Vincent in plaid and pink.

* * *

Chapter 13

* * *

Darkness.

Night woke me more forcefully than sunlight had ever tried. My brain perceived a lack of light from the window, a shortage of rays falling over my bed; my sluggish mind surged through the mire to find Consciousness – which of course felt no desire to be roused from its torpor. Dry yet sticky eyes were pried open with herculean effort, their vision blurred from sleep and tears, and I took in my situation, as it were. Lying face-down, the taste of cotton pillow and gritty hair on my tongue, I thought that perhaps I had become delusional in my old age; why else would I be nearly naked in still-damp underwear under my recently washed and fluffed coverlet set? As I rolled my desiccated tongue about in the hopes to be rid of the feeling ofhair, my ears picked up the pleasant humming of my little heater as it chugged along…in the bathroom?

Groaning in the momentous effort of turning my head – and realizing the sum of my body felt as awkwardly painful as my head – I gradually took in the distorted version of my room. Indeed, the happy space heater was valiantly warming a space no one occupied, facing into the disheveled washroom; towels of my whitest kind, two or three, lay scattered about the stone flooring; soiled, mud-caked boots sat primly near the lip of the shower, placed carefully and in a manner that suggested a ritual of some sort.

If not before, I was now entirely confused by this mass of inappropriately placed items.

I was also confounded by my rather…dank underwear. This was a new development. There are many ways to attain moist undies in bed, but I was quite certain none of those activities had transpired at any time in the past few years. And I was also – mostly - certain that those activities didn't leave the _entire_ garment…saturated.

With that vastly vulgar thought, I finally found Consciousness; apparently, it had been hiding in my sodden underwear.

I could remember, now, the events that culminated in my childish flight, though the recollections were drifting past me too quickly for my mind to fully put them in correct order; maybe later. Maybe when I could find Thought without Haze. But the simple act of remembrance itself was a veritable kick in the stomach. Donovan and his men had returned. We had danced again. Then a moment of weakness. And then…

That recollection I brought up short. Of course my traitorous brain would focus in on the single memory that was by now in perfect clarity: I had drawn on my stranger. I had put up a sleek, cold weapon that was designed to eject a 9mm Parabellum round at three-hundred and fifty meters per second, and I had been a literal breath away from pulling that slackless trigger. There had been no hesitation, and my body remembered well what it had done for so long. But then…then he had spoken, my stranger, and in that moment, I was nothing more than a child, one who had fallen head-first into deep water; I knew how to swim, but I did not know the dangers, I did not know what lurked beneath me.

And dammit, all this from white, wet, clammy panties.

Closing my eyes and releasing a frustrated, tired mixture of a huff and a groan, I realized I would need to apologize to my stranger; no other thing in history would hold the title of 'awkward' after _that_ encounter. Grumbling more at myself than the situation, I felt around for the edge of my comforter and sheets, eventually snaring their edges. Flopping them back, I took a moment before kicking out my legs in what must have been a painfully amusing thing to witness. I was now half-on, half-falling off of my bed, laying on my stomach much in the same manner as a climber about to take the first few steps down a cliff face. This angle also gave me a wonderful chance to explore the blossoming bruises on my knees; yep, I could now distinctly recall _how _I got to the shower. With a great sigh, and an even greater heave, I stood unevenly, teetering slightly before catching myself; you should know that I was both quite pleased by this, and simultaneously disgusted. Not caring to take in the slightest glance of my bed, I turned to stumble back to my toilet.

Before I could take two groggy steps, my toes squished into something cold and wet. This was quite unpleasant. Obligingly tilting my entire head down, I gawked at the soggy, rumpled pair of jeans tossed hap-hazard before my bed.

"Those are my pants."

Some things bear repeating aloud. _But what in the hell are they doing…_My brain derailed and then righted itself. Scrubbing my haggard face with both hands, I vowed to take everything else in stride; I had been a pro at that, once upon a time. Years and years ago. _God, when did I get so old?_ Forcing aside even more clutter in my mind, I shuffled to a large, carved chest of drawers. It smelt of cedar and old wood and it was one of the few things I had pried away from my past. Reaching out to the second drawer, I held to its dark, heavy brass handle as I gracelessly stripped and hopped from my underwear. As my shirt, sport bra, and sopping-still jeans all remained on the floor, I didn't care in the least to add one more bit of damp clothing to their midst; my floor might have protested, but thankfully, it had chosen to remain silent. Kicking them behind me, I hauled open the drawer to reveal more of the same; I was severely lacking in the 'exotic' department. Whites, blacks, greys, and the occasional striping of the aforementioned, were all nestled in a sea of bland. But when no one other than you is to see them, what difference does it make?

One hand reached for a black pair as my mind hit the brakes. Donovan and his men had arrived just before noon; it was well past dark. _Dammit! The horses. _Not bothering to close the drawer, I strode quickly to my armoire and wrenched open a door, ripping out the first pair of jeans I could lay my hands on. Quickly, efficiently I had them on; all thought of apologies and handguns and combat forgotten as I zeroed in on the single thing that mattered in all this mess. As the zipper came to a close, I was already wrangling out a long-sleeved thermal shirt, slipping it on over a bare chest, as my pants had slid over a bare…well, you have the idea. Never once did the thought cross my mind that my stranger had been to my room, and that perhaps he would come again; either I had built trust, or I didn't care any longer.

One look at the bathroom told me the sad tale of my rugged-wear boots: they were soaked completely, and there was no hope of having them dry in the next five minutes. _Fine. Tall mucks it is. _Snaring a hairband from the table near my door, I stuck it between my teeth as I opened the door and began to tuck in the thermal shirt in one fell swoop.

The first thing to hit my senses was the warmth of the room I had just entered. My bedroom over looked the large living area and kitchen, and instead of feeling a chill in the air, I felt_ warm_. Pulling the hair tie from my lips, I struggled with my tangled locks while padding down the stairs; I knew the fire was going – I could see it crackling merrily away from my vantage point – which was odd in and of itself; I had not left one running. But there was something else in the air that gave me pause. It, too, was warm, but in a much more localized way. And then I saw it: there were pots and pans bubbling and sizzling on the stove. My mind gaped at the sight; my body continued on its goal. Reaching the end of the stairs, I swung around the final banister and entered the living room, very much still focused on my objective.

As such, I missed entirely the lack of weaponry that _should_ have been strewn about from my latest…tiff with my stranger, as well as my stranger himself. The latter was remedied just as I rounded the bar on my way to the mud room. He appeared from almost nowhere, cheese grater in one hand and a large hunk of extra-sharp cheddar in the other. After my day, I absolutely _could not_ deal with what just happened. My heart had literally stopped beating, and I stood in the mud room, hovering over my muck boots, attempting to coax the little red organ back into its normal, life-giving rhythm. _Jesus. Christ. In. Heaven. _Dragging my mind back to where I could use it once more, I bent to tug on the tall, over-worked muck boots; I could hear him moving about in the kitchen, and _that_ at least wasn't cause for panic. I had learned over the weeks that he was a creature of habit, but he could also be one of difficultly. There were times in which he would decide on an action, and an attempt to dissuade him would be as futile as using a sieve for an umbrella. So now he wanted to cook; well, good for him. One less thing for me to do.

_Although¸_ my mind mulled as I shoved my foot into the other boot, _why would he do it now? I nearly killed him today. Hell, we nearly killed _each other. _Do I just need to threaten him to get work out of him?_ That thought brought me around to the fact that in every instance of his obstinacy, all I need do was to essentially hold him hostage. He needed me and I…wanted rid of him. Thus far, it had worked for the both of us. Shaking my head, breathing deep, I snatched up a coat and reached for the door. As my fingertips touched the double-locked steel, I heard my stranger's rich voice drift in from the kitchen.

"Your dinner will be late."

* * *

Author's End Note: The 350 m/s on the velocity of the handgun is a generalization, as most 9mm standard will have a muzzle velocity along those lines. This was taken from Glock and SIG specifics, though I am highly adverse to the Glock in general. And yes, I am a person who handles ballistic weapons on a general basis. No, I not am part of the gun-totin', Hill folk crazy crowd. Although, the last may be true. Also, I am surrounded with hillbillies, so I can make that statement without bias.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: I am not fond of this chapter. I haven't written for some time, and my most recent Resident Evil work was a flop. This in mind, let me know if I should re-edit this mess into something more Fields of Trees-ish.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

I had rushed out of the house without any real reason as to why. As my boots hit pockets of mud within the path's tightly packed gravel, my body took the opportunity to remind me of just how _sore _I truly was.

My head felt heavy, fuzzy.

My chest was aching from the forceful effort to breathe.

My skin was tight, too tight, and every limb took herculean strength to simply move.

I had come out the other side of a useless breakdown, but really, what was that worth? Though I wasn't cramped and shivering in my shower, my current state of being wasn't exactly sterling. That worthless lump of grey matter that dares to call itself a brain was pointing out the blatant fact that I had not only taken numerous steps back, I had done so in the presence of my Stranger. The next point made pricked my pride: this man had most likely helped me even _after_ his life had been so indelicately handled by yours truly. My Stranger was, even now, caring for me with less fuss than I had ever provided him.

This thought brought my boots to a halt.

Though I had stitched him, bathed him, fed him, _defended_ him, I had behaved as though he was nothing but a problem to me. A thing I had not wanted in my life. Again. I cared for his body, and little for his mind. And yet...and yet my Stranger had managed to show kindness - in the most roundabout manner possible – when I had afforded him so little. My chest ached now, but not from any physical source; I was staring at stark reality, and I didn't care for what I saw.

Nothing had changed for me.

I thought after years of living _my_ life, as _I_ wanted to, without a single soul to tell me otherwise, I would have shucked off the ridiculous shell I formed. But I hadn't. I was holding on to a thread of the past, wrapping it around whatever small amount of _me _I still had left, and without ever causing notice, it had insinuated itself more deeply than I could have imagined. So instead of living free, I had created for myself a fiction dictated by my past.

Now I forced my legs to take one step, and then another, and then another, until I was inches from the faded green and white wood doors. I didn't feel like I was struggling to pull back one of them; I didn't feel like it was my battered body that entered the well lit stable. However, it _was_ my bleary eyes that noticed a horse quietly snoozing away. This was slightly beyond my comprehension for the moment. Turning in place, I saw all of my animal wards tucked away into their respective stalls, some lazily burying their noses into full hay racks. I felt as though I was in some sort of alternate reality, in which horses just magically appear in their proper places without my knowledge.

Eyes slightly wider than normal, I shuffled down the aisle to peak at my stallion. He studied me for a moment from under his long forelock and half-lidded eyes. I wanted to slide open the door, wrap my arms around him and let his presence take away all the thoughts running rampant in my mind. But as he shifted his weight, I had the distinct impression that he didn't _want_ me there. I was confused; I had always counted on his solid nature, the grounding effect he imparted. Now, however, he was pushing me away. The cold, stiff fingers of my left hand slid between the steel bars of his stall, then curled around one in an imploring gesture I had never used on him.

My stallion, my _friend_ simply stared.

I didn't think I could cry another drop of tears, but as I stood completely cut off from my lifeline, I could feel them brimming my eyes, close to falling. Swiping angrily at them, I held on to the notion that tomorrow things would be different. That thought had become my mantra, living day by day. It was at this point when my mind shoved an idea to the forefront of my consciousness: living for just another day, praying that life would be brighter just on the other side of today, wasn't _living_. It wasn't life. It was simply a march to the end when, with that finality, you realize you missed the point.

I could only stare at my stallion. Something in me had cracked, but instead of breaking loose a flood of anger and defeat, it brought with it room to breathe.

And it only took a complete stranger, a mental meltdown, and a red horse to accomplish what I couldn't.

I finally felt relief, felt like I could fill my lungs without the prayer that I would continue doing so. Upon realizing that, I exhaled heavily, allowing my head to fall back and my eyes to close; not with frustration, not with tears. When they finally fluttered open, my mind astounded me with yet another revelation: how the hell did the horses get into the barn, into their stalls, fed and watered? Was it magic? Chewing on my bottom lip, it only took the span of a heartbeat to realize what had happened. It made absolutely _no_ sense whatsoever, but it was the only explanation available.

My Stranger.

He was the only living…person for miles and miles, so unless the horses had suddenly learnt barn management, he was the only option. I couldn't help but allow my jaw to fall open at this revelation. _How did he…why? _And so doing the only thing that seemed suitable for the moment, I did a cursory check of each animal, finding them all to be completely and happily content. As I reached the last, my lips had begun to twitch into a small smile. Throwing up my hands in what seemed an appropriate gesture for the situation, I shook my head and felt that slight smile bring about a short laugh.

And so, with my revelations in tow, I flipped the light switches off and bid everyone goodnight. Closing the door seemed far less difficult than opening it, and as my eyes adjusted to the night, I could discern the smoke from my large fireplace, and the many lights pouring illumination into the dark. I knew that my Stranger was in the house, I knew he was cooking – still couldn't fathom that one – and I knew he was expecting me. But how was I going tell him all that had happened such a short while? Would he take it in stride, or just brush it off? My money would normally be on the latter, but after the series of disasters we had gone through, chances were that he would understand.


End file.
